


A Sky of Stars

by AconitumNapellus



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 80,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AconitumNapellus/pseuds/AconitumNapellus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crash landing on a planet colonised many years ago by humans, Spock quickly finds himself captured and enslaved on a local farm.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The star field filled the shuttle’s viewscreen like a dusting of glitter held in a perfect black suspension. No forces of gravity were evident in their stillness. No raging fires in the hearts of suns or fevered lives on spinning planets or tremendous collisions between asteroids, planets, galaxies… Out here, in the void between stars, there was nothing. Time could freeze, and no one would be able to tell the difference.

But to Commander Spock the stars were scientific certainties, navigation beacons, examples of chemistry and physics in their purest form. Perhaps a certain part of his mind appreciated the beauty before him, but he certainly wasn’t awe-inspired, or even distracted by it. His dark, intense gaze was more often focussed on the datapadd in his hand than the largely unnecessary sight of the panorama before him. It was his daily backdrop, the view from his window, his workplace.

Today it was very definitely his workplace, and the details of the stars were better spelt out with scientific readings than by staring at their brightness. He was out here alone for the very mundane task of locating and cataloguing potential supernovae for Starfleet’s navigational warning sector. The _Enterprise_ was tasked with ferrying an ambassador back to his home planet, and Spock was using this dead time to split away from the ship and carry out this vital but ordinary work. For a week this compact vehicle would be his home. He didn’t worry about the smallness of his ship in the vastness of space around him – he knew that as long as his equipment continued to function properly the _Enterprise_ would have no problem locating him.

Both his bed and his kitchen had been set up in the small compartment at the back of the shuttle, but in all honesty he didn’t expect to use them. He had already been here for twenty-four hours, and he had not yet felt the need for sleep, or to eat more than one small meal from a ration pack. The less time he spent attending to personal needs, the more useful work he could complete.

And then a warning light flashed on his navigational sensors. Spock put his datapadd down and turned his attention without pause to the alert. There was an ion storm developing one thousand and fifty-seven miles off his port bow. It wasn’t large at this moment in time, but it was growing rapidly. At its rate of increase, it would envelope the tiny shuttle easily, no matter which way he chose to turn. He swiftly and calmly turned the ship about, plotting a course and speed that would enable him, if not to outrun the storm, at least perhaps to outrun the worse ferocity of it. It would also take him on a path towards Alphonae Prime, a human colony planet that dated back to the earliest days of interstellar space travel. It was a place that shunned outside contact and modern technology, and he knew very little about it – but it would, perhaps, provide a safe haven in the event of his ship becoming damaged or disabled.

He buckled his safety belt across his lap, secured his datapadd in a small locker near his knee, and sat still in the chair, waiting for what would happen to happen.

******

Whatever did happen, it happened so quickly that he barely had time to react. As the storm hit, it knocked out all power in the shuttle, and Spock was left in the utter darkness of a ship without lights, and with thick baffles shut over the viewing hatches in an attempt to protect him from radiation and dazzling bursts of lightning-like energy. He felt in the emergency locker at his knee, found a flashlight, and depressed the button. That did not work either. He could hear the storm swirling about the hull, and feel the violent lurches – but he could do nothing but sit still in the intense blackness, and wait calmly for a change in his circumstances. The most likely reason for the power outtage, considering that the flashlight was also affected, was the interference from the storm, and in that case power would return when the storm diminished. The most important factor at the moment was that life support was inoperative, and conserving air and heat were the only things that were left for him to do.

The computers seem to recover from the storm sooner than the instruments, and although Spock still had no idea where he was or what was happening, he could now hear the constant hum of the engines propelling the shuttle forward on its last programmed course, making adjustments against the onslaught of the storm, and finally beginning to recycle his precious air again. And then, at last, the lights flickered back on, and Spock instantly raised the protective baffles and took in his visual surroundings whilst also flicking his eyes to the instruments to ascertain his actual location. His shock registered only as a pursing of his lips. His course had been readjusted almost too precisely, with no consciousness of obstacles in the shuttle’s path. He was just entering the exosphere of Alphonae Prime, and his instruments promised him that the shuttle was both too badly damaged to land, or to escape from the thick drag of the planet’s gravity.

Spock pulled on protective clothing, clipped a high-altitude parachute onto his back, and waited for the precise moment that was most suitable for abandoning ship.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He landed in a forest, somewhere on a northern continent of Alphonae Prime. It took only a few seconds to ascertain that his passage through the trees had left him miraculously unscathed, and he was not injured in any way. Spock gathered up his parachute back into its pack, removed his bulky altitude suit and mask, and began to make his way towards what looked like a thinning in the trees. He had noticed fields, and possibly buildings, on his descent, and all that he could do was to walk in their direction and hope that he would find someone who could assist him.

The first person Spock set eyes on as he left the wood was a muscular man who was standing looking out over a ploughed field, a curiously antiquated rifle tucked under one arm. Some instinct told him to distrust the man, but he dismissed the thought as illogical. He needed help, and he did not know how far he would have to travel to find it again if he passed up this chance. The only precaution he made against the man being hostile was to carefully deposit his suit and parachute near the base of a tree, to free himself of encumbrances. That done, he continued towards the man without pause.

‘Excuse me,’ he said clearly before he reached him, cautious of surprising a man with such a volatile weapon.

The man spun, astonishment showing clearly on his features as he caught sight of the Vulcan.

‘I am in need of assistance,’ Spock continued, moving closer.

‘You’d best come to the house,’ the man said quickly.

He looked about as he spoke, then touched the Vulcan’s arm, steering him over towards the edge of the field where a hedge separated it from a lush pasture. Spock got the distinct feeling that he was trying to stop him seeing something in the first field, but before he could look they had moved through the gateway into the green field. Another man was striding down the field towards the gate they had just come through, and the burly man shouted to him, ‘Miles, watch them for me. Got a visitor I need to take to the master.’

The other man nodded mutely, and continued past them towards the ploughed field. He had a gun too, but he did not look quite as formidable as the man that Spock was walking with.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked curiously, turning his attention back to Spock. ‘You’re not human, are you?’

‘I am Vulcan,’ Spock said candidly. ‘I was separated from my ship for a survey mission,’ he explained. ‘My shuttle was damaged by an ion storm. I was forced to abandon the craft shortly after it entered the atmosphere of this planet. I imagine it crashed at least 3,000 miles from my position. I attempted to aim it towards one of your larger oceans before I evacuated.’

‘So you – jumped out?’ the man asked, seeming puzzled.

‘I was forced to deploy an emergency parachute once I had reached a suitable altitude,’ Spock said, letting his eyes move over the field they were walking through. Presumably this was a grazing pasture, but there were vehicle tracks and worn paths bisecting the field, from a gate at the top to the gate at the bottom that they had just come through. ‘It would not have been possible to land the craft successfully with the damage it had sustained.’

‘So – does your ship know where you are?’ the man asked curiously.

‘I did not manage to contact them,’ Spock said. He thought there was an odd tone to the man’s voice as he asked that question, but he dismissed the idea. Perhaps it was simply a quirk of the local accent. ‘I was hoping to avail myself of a communications device here.’

‘We don’t have things like that in this area,’ the man said carelessly. ‘Don’t have much technology at all to speak of. We prefer to rely on other means. Your people have _no_ idea of where you are?’ he pressed.

Spock shook his head. ‘Unfortunately no. I was pushed quite far off course.’

His heart had sunk at the man’s statement. He would have to find some way of either getting to a place with more advanced technology, or of somehow fashioning his own communications device from the resources at hand. A single planet was an unmanageably large area when faced with a lack of technology, and that planet was minuscule compared to the span of space he would have to reach through to arrange a rescue.

‘Come on, then,’ the man said, his grip tightening on Spock’s arm just a little.

As they reached the top of the field a ramshackle farmyard appeared over the rise, complete with farmhouse, wooden sheds and outbuildings. Spock got his first real sign that all was not as he would wish it to be as he saw a thin, wiry figure coming out of the yard towards them, carrying a heavy bucket of water. The man was struggling with the weight of the pail. He looked too underfed for such work, his face was lined with tiredness, and his clothes were limited to a torn pair of trousers held about his waist by string. The most ominous thing to Spock’s eyes, though, was the chains – a two foot long chain between his ankles restricting his gait, another chain between his wrists, and a short, leash-like length hanging from a thick metal collar about his neck. Alphonae Prime was an old, old human colony, and he had never expected to see anything like this.

‘Sir, can you explain – ’ he began, turning to his guide.

The man suddenly released his arm, stepping back a little to put distance between them, and lowering his rifle so that it was aimed directly at Spock’s chest.

‘Just carry on into the yard,’ he said determinedly. ‘Go on.’

Spock glanced at the gun, and then turned back towards the farmyard, walking slowly and cautiously. He saw little point in arguing. This man knew who he was and what his situation was. He knew he was without friends or help. It was not likely he would be able to persuade him to put the weapon down.

‘Sir, got a present for you,’ the burly man said in a louder voice as they entered the yard.

A thin, well-dressed man was standing near the house, speaking to another slave – for it was obvious by now to Spock that these people were slaves. This was obviously no prison, and there was no other reason that they would be chained in such a way.

‘Where’d that come from?’ the man asked, coming over to them and looking critically at Spock. ‘What is he?’

‘A Vulcan, sir. You could say he just dropped in from the sky,’ Spock’s guide said with an amused grin. ‘He’s got no people who know where he is. He admitted that. I know you’re not one to say no to a turn of fate like this, sir. We’re in need of another body.’

‘You’re sure he’s without help?’ the man asked critically. ‘I’ve heard Vulcans aren’t the type you want to anger, no matter what they say about their logic.’

‘He said so himself. Got sent off course by a storm and crashed here. What can we do, anyway? Send him away to make some kind of report? You can’t let him go, sir.’

‘No. No, that’s true. Well then – bring him into the fold,’ the man smiled, looking at Spock with a discriminating gaze that made apprehension bloom in his chest. He did not dare attempt a physical resistance with that gun pointed at him.

‘Bains, Petter, put him in the crush,’ the burly man said, beckoning two obviously free men over. He turned his attention to one of the thin, chained men who was standing nervously nearby. ‘Boy, fetch me a bucket of hot coals and the irons from the smithy.’

Before Spock could even launch a protest he was grabbed roughly and manhandled into a metal frame contraption that stood cemented into the ground nearby. It seemed artfully constructed to be able to hold or bring pressure onto every part of his body, whilst still leaving most of his surface relatively free for inspection. His arms and legs were held rigid, his head uncomfortably pinioned by metal bars, his tongue pressed onto the bottom of his mouth by a loop of foul tasting metal pushed uncompromisingly between his teeth. The part that held his ankles still was briefly released, and his boots and socks were removed. His trousers were undone, pulled off, and flung aside. He closed his eyes in brief mortification as his underpants were pulled down onto his thighs, and a rough hand began to inspect him.

‘Going to geld him, sir?’ the burly man asked, and Spock stiffened, momentarily horrified before he could suppress his reaction.

‘I don’t think so, Newman,’ the thinner man replied, bending to facilitate a closer inspection. ‘If I judge his species rightly, he’s frigid as hell anyway, and it causes too many problems. And it’s always useful as a future threat. Get that top off him. I want to look at his physique.’

His top was cut away and dropped beside him, and he stood shivering slightly, trying to ignore the fact that he was being held almost entirely naked and defenceless before these men. From the creeping, malnourished, chained figures he could see about the place, he had no illusions about what he was about to become.

‘Doesn’t look strong,’ Newman muttered.

‘No, but he is,’ the other man said with an air of satisfaction. ‘Stronger than you’ll ever guess, Newman. Look,’ he said, pressing his palm invasively onto the Vulcan’s bare stomach. Spock tensed uncomfortably. ‘Look at the musculature here. It’s slight, but powerful. Keep a tight rein on this one. He’s strong, and he’s crafty. He’ll do the work of two men, but you _must, must_ always let him know who’s in control. He’ll break free at the first opportunity. Now – ’ he said, as an ominously glowing bucket of coals was put silently at his feet. ‘Stall fourteen’s free, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Vacated last week.’

‘Good, good,’ he muttered, pushing moveable symbols onto a frame with a long metal handle. He regarded the mirrored lettering, and nodded, before plunging it deep into the shimmering coals. Spock allowed himself to feel the heat from the bucket – even to benefit from it – but ignored its implications. He waited, but it was inevitable that the brand would be ignored while it heated.

A plate of metal over his forehead was pulled back, forcing his mouth open by dint of the immovable bar in his mouth. ‘Good dental health,’ the thin man said, probing into Spock’s mouth with his unwashed fingers. ‘That’s handy. And his feet are soft, but good. His hands look strong.’

‘Are you going to chain him before you brand him, sir?’ Newman asked.

‘I’ll have the smith do it when I’m done here. I want continuous bands – nothing he can break or unpick. Brace his arm, will you?’

Strategically placed clamps were closed, performing the dual function of holding his arm completely immobile and stretching the skin tight. The man pulled the brand out of the bucket and glanced briefly at the glowing white letters.

‘All right, we’re ready,’ he muttered.

An inarticulate grunt of pain was forced from Spock’s mouth as the white-hot end of the brand was pressed firmly against his upper arm. The two men kept talking to each other as if nothing unusual was happening, but all Spock could be aware of was the continuing waves and pulses of unmerciful pain as the skin and flesh beneath the brand succumbed to its heat. He gritted his teeth on the metal plate in his mouth, struggling to stay quiet. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Then he realised that even though the pain was continuing the brand had been removed and plunged back into the coals. His relief was tempered by the knowledge that if they needed to reheat it, they would be using it again. Someone tossed a cup of water over his arm, and for one brief second the pain relented. Then the agony began again, at the side of his left thigh this time, as the brand was reapplied. Another grunt of pain was ground out of him, but he could do nothing to move away from the relentless pressure of the white hot metal on his thigh. For a moment his sight blanked out in a haze of shimmering blotches, and then he realised the brand had been removed, and the only thing holding him up was the crush around him as water was thrown over his face and the two throbbing burns.

His optimism that any painful procedures were now over was dimmed again as the thinner man turned to Newman and said, ‘Heat up that punch, and I’ll fetch the lock and ring. He may be frigid, but I’ll not leave him able.’

He handed Newman what looked like a long-handled pair of clippers, that he pushed into the bucket that the brand had been heated in. Spock could do nothing but stand in silence and wait, trying not to dwell on what might be about to happen. The thin man returned, holding a metal ring of about an inch in diameter, that was obviously hinged at one side and fixed with a locking mechanism at the other. He bent and took Spock’s scrotum in both hands, pushing his testes aside in the soft bag and stretching it taut while Newman retrieved the punch from the bucket. Spock closed his eyes at that moment, steeling himself for the pain. It came in a swift, agonising snap as a hole was simultaneously punched and cauterised through his scrotum, and then came again as his foreskin was stretched taut and an identical hole was clipped through both sides. The ring was slipped immediately through both holes and locked, fastening his penis to his scrotum in order, presumably, to make it impossible for him to sustain or even achieve an erection without unbearable pain. He opened his eyes again, trying desperately to push away the dizzy pulsing of pain, as first the piercings and then the two brand marks were carelessly doused in something that smelt like iodine, and his underwear was roughly pulled up again.

‘That’s it,’ the thin man said. ‘Go and tell the smith to fit him with extra strong chains. I don’t want him loosed from the crush until he’s restrained. I’ll come back when he’s done and set him to work.’

Spock stood feeling the last of his freedom slip away as the smith arrived, and fastened metal cuffs about his wrists and ankles that were held together by metal rivets pushed through the eyes red hot and clamped flat, removing all chance of their being removed as they cooled and hardened. The heat transferred swiftly into the colder metal, burning the skin beneath despite the water that was flung over them. The chains fixing wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle were already fastened to the cuffs, disturbingly short and heavy. Finally a metal collar with a short chain attached was riveted about his neck, and the process was complete. The crush was finally undone as the thin man returned, and Spock stepped away from the frame cautiously, acknowledging that he was powerless, and unsure of what he may do. He glanced sideways at the torn remains of his shirt on the floor, and began to bend to pick it up. A sharp, stinging impact snapped across his thigh as he bent, and he straightened immediately, his eyes falling on the vicious crop that the thin man had just hit him with. Surprised fury blazed in his eyes just for a moment before he regained control of his automatic reactions.

‘I meant only to recover my clothing,’ Spock said softly, trying not to sound antagonistic.

The cane snapped across his skin again, and he hissed in breath automatically at the pain.

‘That clothing is _my_ clothing,’ the man said tersely, putting his booted foot firmly on the torn top. ‘You are my property. Your very life belongs to me. I am Master Heaton. You will _always_ address me as Master, or as sir, and address every free man as sir. You are slave number fourteen. That is your only name. Do you understand me?’

‘I am Commander Spock of the USS _Enterprise_ ,’ Spock began firmly. ‘I demand – ’

The blow almost brought him to his knees. Master Heaton had struck him so hard in the stomach that the bruise mark was already developing as he struggled to his feet again.

‘If I desire, I could have you executed in any way I liked,’ the man said in a soft, dangerous voice. ‘Or I could simply make you suffer so much pain that you would beg to be executed. There is nowhere that you can go. You are marked with my brand. Anywhere you went you would be shot on sight as a runaway. You are _my_ chattel now, and these are my rules. Listen to them carefully.’

At Spock’s lack of response the man forced him to raise his head with one finger under his chin.

‘If you do not obey orders instantly, or you show laziness, or surliness, or a lack of respect, you will be beaten, or have your food or rest withdrawn. You may have lead weights attached to your hand and foot chains, and to your collar, and you will work while carrying that weight. If you show an inclination to use, or actually use, violence against your masters you will suffer extreme consequences. You may be flogged, or branded, or suffer removal of those delicate ears, or your nose or your tongue. If you ever attempt a sexual advance towards any female you will be castrated. If you attempt a sexual advance towards a free person, you will die in a most unpleasant fashion. You do not have rights or privileges. If you work well, we may allow you to exist without pain. That is all.’

‘If I could be allowed to – ’ Spock began again.

‘Give him one hundred lashes for his insolence, then set him to work moving the rocks in the low field,’ Master Heaton said abruptly, turning to Newman. ‘If he disobeys again, give him another hundred. If he disobeys again, use the hammer to break one toe, and beat him again. Repeat that process until he becomes placid. He can have half rations tonight, and we’ll see how tractable he is in the morning.’ He looked down briefly, grinding his heavy boot against the blue shirt on the floor, covering it in dirt. ‘Let him wear the rag once you’ve beaten him. It’s something I may take from him later, depending on how he behaves.’

Spock stared about at the other cast down slaves about him, registering the thick scars of beatings and the various mutilations they had suffered. Almost none of them, male or female, had clothing above the waist. Some had no more than scraps of sacking cinched around their waists as a meagre covering. Hair grew matted and dirty, and no male was without a beard. Almost every slave his eyes fell on had obviously suffered a beating at some point, but even without such punishment it was obvious that life as a slave was by no means pleasant. He had no hope of escape at this point in time, so it was logical to at least affect submission for now.

‘Punishment will not be necessary, Master,’ he said softly, keeping his eyes cast towards the floor. ‘I will obey.’

The master took his chin in one hand, lifting his head and staring into his face.

‘Beat him anyway,’ he said to Newman, disdainfully flicking Spock’s chin away. ‘Then we’ll see.’

 


	3. Chapter 3

Spock stumbled resolutely across the same field in which he had first met Newman, his feet slipping into the dry, crumbling dirt, forcing his arms to stay locked about the heavy boulder he carried. It was taking almost all of his power to manage the pain his was in and concentrate on his set task. The lash marks throbbed across his back, dried blood tight on his skin. Every movement of his shoulders or torso made him wince with pain. The fresh brand marks pulsed with burning soreness. The skin under the fetters burnt. The pain from the punched and cauterised holes in his genitals sickened him each time he took a step and the ring there rubbed and pulled.

He had been carrying rough, misshapen boulders dug out by other slaves to a wooden cart for the last three hours without food, drink or rest. His only break in the proceedings came when the cart was filled and he was ordered to position himself in the harness at the front and drag the unbearably heavy load up out of the field and unload it onto a pile of stones in a yard at the farm. He continued to work despite the weariness and the pain only because he knew he had no logical means of escaping the situation, and all he could do was try to endure it as well as possible until his shipmates came to his aid. His only grace was that as a Vulcan he was stronger than any of the human slaves about him. The master knew he was stronger – he simply did not know how much stronger. Spock was doing all he could do convince him that the difference was not that great.

It was getting to the point, though, where his stumbles and slips, and his inability to lift certain larger of the boulders, were not fake any more. His legs trembled with tiredness every time he stopped moving. His arms felt numb, his fingers pulsing under the pressure and abrasion of the rough rocks he had been gripping. Finally Newman, the overseer, nodded gruffly towards a water trough near the stone pile.

‘Drink, and sit for five minutes,’ he said shortly. ‘Then get back to it.’

Spock glanced sideways at him. He didn’t want to reply, but didn’t think he could get away with the insolent impression silence would give. Newman was overly fond of lashing out with the cane he carried. He had already proven himself an expert in inflicting pain with the beating he had given Spock.

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured, stumbling over to the trough and sinking to his knees beside it.

The water within was stale and dirty, but it was his only option, so he dipped his cupped hands below the surface and scooped some into his mouth. Once he had satiated his thirst he sat, trembling, regarding his own body. His feet and hands were filthy, and smudged with blood from numerous nicks and scrapes. His knees were dark with earth, his legs dusted over with soil. The clean top he had worn until his capture, which he had managed to fasten as a covering around his waist, was covered in dirt. His chest was bruised and filthy from holding boulders against it, as were his arms. His wrists were bruised from constantly jarring against the cuffs around them, every time he stretched too far, or a rock slipped onto the chain between them. Even after all these hours he could not get used to the jerking restriction every time he took a step, or reached out with one hand and pulled the other with it. It was that most of all that reminded him every moment of his state of slavery.

The sharp crack of the overseer’s cane cut across the already agonising welts on his back, and he snapped his attention back to his surroundings, restraining his urge to take that thin, cruel rod and break it.

‘Enough – get back to work.’

‘Sir, it has only been three point seven minutes,’ Spock began almost automatically. He could not but help count the time in his head.

The cane cut down on him again, but this time the blow was followed by the blow of a fist, and he was wrenched to his feet by the short chain attached to his collar.

‘Contradict me again, and I’ll put the tongue-gag on you,’ the man said menacingly, just inches from his face. ‘But I’ll have smith heat it up in the forge first, and we’ll see how cocky you are when your tongue’s pressed into your mouth by a tablet of hot iron.’

Spock pressed his lips together automatically at that threat, which he had no doubt would be carried out if he angered the man further. He did not want to respond subserviently, but it was the only logical thing to do.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said quietly, keeping his eyes downcast. ‘I was mistaken.’

‘Get to it, then, boy,’ the man said, lashing him viciously again. ‘I want my target met by nightfall.’

Spock strapped himself back wearily into the harness on the cart, and began to drag it back towards the field, being pushed on at every step by the sting of the cane behind him.

******

By the allotted meal time it was all he could do not to fall to his knees from exhaustion. He found himself lined up in numerical order with the other slaves, all as tired as he was, kneeling on the ground in the yard before a line of dirty metal bowls. A free man walked along the line with a vat of some kind of soupy mess, dropping a deep ladle-full into each bowl. As per Master Heaton’s orders, his bowl was filled with only half a scoop, and Spock was left half with longing for the food he missed, and half relief that he would be forced to eat less of the foul smelling mixture. He wished he had eaten more on the shuttlecraft – he wished he had slept more, too – but that could not be changed. He had, at least, seemed to have fallen into a time zone in which night roughly lined up with his night on the  _Enterprise_ .

He followed the lead of the others around him, putting the bowl to his lips and drinking as much as possible, then scooping any remains out with his fingers, then licking what was left. It was messy and unpleasant, but it seemed the most logical way of getting as much nutrition as he could. The final step was evidently to queue at the drinking trough at the side of the yard, taking the chance to fill the bowl up with water, swill it around, and drink the last remnants of nourishment before washing out the bowl in the water and stacking it on the ground with the ones that had gone before. His stomach clenched and churned on the meagre, unpleasant meal – but at least he had had a meal, unlike one unfortunate man who had been flogged earlier, and was left tied to the flogging post with only water to sustain him. He was reasonably confident of being able to slip small amounts of edible vegetation into his mouth while working in the fields at least, thus bolstering his intake a little.

The work continued for another three hours after his meal, until the failing sun made it impossible to labour without artificial light. He followed the other slaves as he was ordered, cleaned and replaced the tools he had been using, and then stood with them in the yard, awaiting some kind of orders. The others lined up almost automatically in order of the numbers burnt into their arms, and Spock took his place between them. The overseer strode over to them, cursorily glancing over them to be certain there was no one missing, then nodded towards a ramshackle shed on the other side of the yard.

‘Into stalls,’ he snapped. ‘Thirteen, show fourteen how to secure himself.’

Spock followed the others wearily, hoping against his rationality for some kind of soft, comfortable bed that he would be allowed to sleep in. But all there was in the shed was ranks of stalls divided by wooden partitions, with a meagre amount of straw cast down on the floor. It was obvious which was his – he merely followed the thirteenth slave and entered the empty stall that he gestured towards. At the back of each stall was a small hole in the wall low down near the floor with a chain hanging through it, and his was no different.

‘Sit on the floor and clip it to the middle of your wrist chain,’ the man said shortly. He was thin and sparely muscled, bearded and with long, matted hair like the rest of the men. He seemed too tired to do any more than stand there and gesture limply at the chain.

‘There is no lock?’ Spock asked wonderingly. The chain was ended by nothing more secure than a simple snap clip.

‘It’s wound back into the wall. You can’t get at it.’

‘How long have you been here?’ Spock asked in an undertone as he crouched down. ‘Are people here born to slavery?’

The man shook his head, kneeling down beside him as if to show him how to clip the chain. ‘Sold, captured, condemned – not born. I been here fifteen years since I lost my income. They whipped you,’ he said, glancing at Spock’s lacerated back.

‘For insolence,’ Spock nodded.

‘They always whip them on their first day,’ the man muttered cynically. ‘To show them their place.’

Spock raised an eyebrow at that information. ‘Are slaves really shot if they run away?’

He shook his head again. ‘Not often – we’re too valuable.’

‘Is there anywhere safe to go if I escape?’

The man turned his head nervously at the sound of footsteps. ‘That way,’ he said swiftly, jerking his head to the left. ‘Towards the setting sun.’

He clipped Spock’s wrist chain to the chain in the wall, and stood quickly, getting into his own stall just as the overseer reached him. Spock waited, afraid that the man would get into trouble for talking to him or being too slow, but the overseer said nothing – just turned around again and strode back to the end of the shed. There was a grinding noise, and the chain in the wall, along with all the others, Spock presumed, receded back into the wall, pulling the clip and the two halves of Spock’s wrist chain back through the hole so that the clip was unreachable. With the position of his hands pulled back against the wall Spock could find no sleeping position but lying on his whipped back on the straw with his hands held up above his head.

The overseer moved past each stall, tugging cursorily at the wrist chains to be sure they were secure, and then he left the building. The light flicked off, leaving them in darkness and silence. Spock lay quietly for a moment, absorbing the surrounding scents now he could no longer concentrate on his visual surroundings. The shed stank of dirty straw and sweat and urine – the straw he was lying on was by no means fresh either. He did not like to think what had happened to the previous occupier of the stall.

‘Are we left like this until morning?’ Spock asked. His voice sounded surprisingly loud in the silent shed. There was no answer from the stall next door. ‘Thirteen,’ he said sharply. ‘Thirteen? Do you have a name?’

There was silence again, and then the man next door said in a low voice, ‘Benjamin.’

‘I am Spock,’ Spock replied. ‘Benjamin, are we left like this until morning?’

‘Yes. We shouldn’t talk.’

‘And if we need to use the toilet?’ Spock persisted. He needed to gain any pertinent information in order to formulate a plan for escaping.

‘Wait, or do it in the straw. It slopes to the gutter. _Please_ , stop talking. We’ll be punished.’

Spock fell silent, in deference to the man’s very real fear. His situation here was intolerable, and he intended to attempt to escape, but there was nothing he could do but wait until later. By his estimation, although it was dark it was not very late – it was likely that those people on the farm who were free would still be awake now, eating their dinner and enjoying their evening. There was no sense in trying anything until everyone was asleep. He lay, allowing himself to feel the pain in his back and arms and thigh and genitals, processing the sensations and rationalising them until they were dulled to a bearable point. All around him were the slight rustling and clanking of other captives moving, and then gradually more and more noises of soft breathing or snoring as each one fell into sleep. By listening hard he could hear the occasional sound of voices from outside, and every now and then a burst of music, as if a door had been opened to the main house.

His own urge to sleep was great. He was hungry and exhausted, his fatigue made more so by the pain. But he could not sleep. It was imperative to stay awake, to listen, and to wait.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The shed grew colder. Through the cracks in the plank walls the night grew darker, and the voices outside gradually petered out. Spock could hear the occasional noise of a dog barking, or wild birds and animals calling, but all human noise had ceased. Spock lay still on the floor, trying to conserve his heat as best he could. He had managed to roll onto his side and hunch his legs up to his chest, even though it made the position of his hands more awkward. He could only be grateful for those scraps of clothing he had retained, and regretful for those he hadn’t. One of his biggest enemies in his escape attempt would be his lack of shoes, but he would have to put up with it.

He rolled over awkwardly so that he was kneeling facing the wall, and tested his wrist chain by pulling on it. A few links slipped out, but not enough to reach the clip. He felt in the darkness at the hole in the wood. There was just enough room to slip two fingers into it. He closed his eyes, focussed his strength, and pulled. The wood creaked, but it didn’t break. He pulled again, harder this time, and was rewarded by a faint sound of cracking. He renewed his effort – and finally the wood splintered, and a long shard pulled away from the hole. It was just enough to slip his hand through, and he felt along the chain for the clip, managing to undo it with one hand.

He stood swiftly, trying to hold his chains so the links did not clash together, making his way towards the door in utter darkness and trusting in his memory to find it. His hands fumbled into it, and he found and lifted the latch. The door would not move. Spock pressed his lips together in frustration. He began to gently push at the door, trying to work out where the points of resistance were. It seemed to be bolted at the top and halfway up. He concentrated his effort on the bolt halfway up, and pushed at the door with one tremendous effort. The door burst open with a groan and a shriek of wrenching metal, and suddenly he was outside. Behind him he heard the noise of the other slaves stirring – and then to his amazement he heard a clamour setting up – his fellow captives calling out, ‘Escape, escape!’ at the top of their voices, banging at the stalls and rattling their chains.

Spock ran. His leg chain pulled at each step, and he ended up with an odd, loping stride that was slower than he wished to be. He had got as far as the yard gate when the door to the house opened, and men came out with torches and barking dogs. It seemed quicker to climb it than to try to open it, so he threw himself over the bars, tumbling onto the ground the other side. He got up and carried on running, desperately trying to get to the trees he knew lay along the left side of the road leading up to the farm. But he could not run fast enough with his chained ankles, and the men behind were catching him. Then something solid launched itself at his back, and he found himself suddenly lying flat on his front on the ground with a dog over him, holding himself rigidly still in deference to the vicious growls he could hear. Then he was surrounded by men, and the dog was hauled off of him, and he was roughly pulled to his feet and dragged back towards the farmstead by too many hands to resist.

‘Brand him as an escapee, and then beat him,’ he heard the master say as he reached the farmyard. ‘Two hundred, to teach him not to think of it again. When you’ve done beating him, put him in the box for twenty-four hours so he can think on how stupid he’s been.’

The next hour or so merged into a painful blur. He was manhandled to the crush, blows and kicks forcing him in the right direction, and held still while a man held a red hot iron to his arm for a full minute, searing a cross into his skin. Then he was pushed unceremoniously to the flogging board he had been chained to earlier, his hands pulled up and fastened above his head.

‘I want you to count the strokes,’ the man behind him said. ‘Your sort are supposed to be good at counting. I want you to see I don’t miss any.’

Spock closed his eyes, leaning his cheek against the rough wood. His face was pressed against his upstretched arm, and he found a curious comfort in that forced protection, despite the throbbing soreness of the brand there.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

The anticipation seemed worse than the beating – until the beating actually began.

The whip whistled through the air, a split second noise that was ended by the sharp, agonising crack as the end cut into his already damaged back.

‘One,’ he forced out through gritted teeth.

‘Not loud enough,’ the man said sharply. ‘I want each one counted loud and clear and correct. Now – ’

The lash hit again, and Spock snapped out, ‘Two,’ struggling to control his voice through the pain.

‘No. Each time you miscount we’ll repeat the stroke. Begin at one again.’

Spock swallowed hard, struggling to push away the pain of new cuts on old ones in order to allow himself to speak clearly. The punishment was not fair, but that fact would alter nothing, and his only choice was to do exactly what was asked of him.

The whip seared into him again, and he began again, ‘One ... two … three … four…’ As the numbers became greater and pain built upon pain it became harder and harder to speak exactly as the man wanted him to. By the time he was calling out fifty he calculated he had actually taken almost seventy strokes. His voice was beginning to crack with dryness, his mind dizzied with pain. He called out fifty-two, and then realised that he had just called that number, and he had increased the number of strokes yet again. He pressed his forehead into his arm, struggling against the imperative to faint or vomit. He was exhausted and in agony, but he had to focus on nothing but counting.

Then suddenly the shock of cold water over his head and down his body snapped him back to reality, and he realised he had passed out.

‘Seventy-nine,’ the man behind him said sharply. ‘Don’t lose count or we’ll have to start again.’

‘S-seventy-nine,’ Spock said as the lash hit again. ‘Eighty ... Eighty-one … Eighty-two … Eighty – ’ His mind suddenly blanked, and he struggled to remember the right number. ‘Eighty – ’

‘ _Eighty-three_ ,’ the man snarled, bringing the whip down with extra force. ‘Don’t think I want to be out here any more than you do. I was in bed until half an hour ago.’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ Spock murmured. There was no other response he could make, despite the many things he would rather say to this man.

‘Start at eighty-three again.’

Somehow he managed to set his mind so that he could count automatically, partitioning that away from his desperate attempts to manage the pain being inflicted upon him. Then, mercifully, he was saying, ‘Two hundred,’ and he heard the whip being dropped on the ground. His arm chain was released, and he sank to his knees, still leaning against the board. And then he found himself being dragged across the yard and shoved forward, and he was kicked and pushed until he crawled into a dank, cold space with a solid metal door that was locked across the front. The floor consisted of pitted mud and shallow pools of cold water. The walls felt like concrete against his bare arms and back. The space was so small that he could do little but crouch with his arms curled about his legs and his back pressed against the wall, his head forced down by the roof above. Somehow, despite his wounds and the awkwardness of his position, he finally managed to fall asleep, curled tightly about himself and shivering with pain.

******

It was a fitful sleep that Spock gained that night, broken by pain and cold and relentless discomfort. His feet were bruised from running and his back throbbed with pain. His conscious mind could dismiss the pain, with some difficulty, but the cold dulled his ability to control it when he slipped into sleep, so he had the choice of painful sleep or wakefulness consumed by the struggle to calm the stinging and throbbing in his back. It never grew light in the box, despite the sounds of daytime filtering through the door. After a while thirst battered at him as his body urged him to replace the fluids he had lost as blood and sweat during his beating, but the box smelt of stale urine and worse, and the risks from drinking the foul liquid he squatted in far outweighed the gain.

He sat listening to the sounds of feet moving and chain rattling, and then the noise of the metal bowls being handed out for breakfast, and his stomach groaned despite himself. He had worked too hard the day before to miss a meal without regretting the loss of nourishment. He remembered the last meal he had sat down to on the ship, and was struck by the contrast with his current position. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had been warm, well-fed, comfortable – and above all else, free. He exhaled slowly, resting his head on his knees and trying to deal with the negative emotions associated with his position. Feeling them was of no use – it would only impede his ability to devise a successful escape.

He was just managing to draw himself away from the pain and discomfort he was in when a sudden thunderous banging jerked him out of his meditation. Someone was banging repeatedly on the door of the box with some hard implement, for no other motive that he could fathom other than to cause him extra discomfort. The metallic booming shivered into his ears uncomfortably, and he pressed his hands over them, trying to suppress the headache that had already formed from dehydration and lack of sleep. Then, mercifully, the noise stopped again, and he was left in dark silence for another few hours until the next time someone decided to bang on the door.

His captivity in the box did not last just twenty-four hours. Since he had been committed to the box so late at night, they obviously decided it was not worth disturbing themselves to release him after the full day had elapsed, and another seven hours slipped away before finally he heard the bolts being dragged back, and the door swung open. He almost fell out onto the ground outside, squinting against the daylight, trying to urge some life back into his cold, damp limbs and body. His stiff and whip-lashed neck screamed a protest as he tried to straighten it up, and his eyes met those of the foreman standing over him.

‘Get into line,’ the man said, kicking him carelessly in the side. ‘Get fed, and get to work. You’ve lost enough time already.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Spock murmured, struggling to his knees, and then getting stiffly to his feet. He joined the line of slaves silently, waiting for his bowl to be filled with gruel from the vat, and then picking it up with numb fingers and drinking the contents with an eagerness built of over thirty hours without food.

‘They always punish you hard when you’re new,’ the man next to him – Benjamin, Spock realised – said in an undertone. ‘Teaches you to submit.’

‘The other slaves alerted them to my escape,’ Spock said through barely moving lips, pretending to be taking another gulp from the bowl.

‘Have to,’ Benjamin murmured. ‘Else we’d all be beaten. Please, don’t blame them…’

‘No,’ Spock said softly.

He could not blame them. How a human could bear the punishment he had undergone, he could not understand. It was only his Vulcan disciplines that had kept him steady through to the end.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Each day followed the next on the farm with very little incident to mark it out. It was only the sporadic whippings and the vagaries of the weather that marked a difference in the march of days. Time expanded from one week to two, three, four, then another four weeks. The season was definitely changing. The days were growing longer, the weather was gradually becoming a little warmer.

Spock made sure to avoid any action that might cause a repeat of the confinement in that cold, cramped box, but it was almost impossible to work the hours and intensity that he was forced to without some mistake calling for a punishment at the flogging board. He grew used to the dull repetition of his tasks, of passing his days with very little conversation that was not the giving and receiving of orders, of being too tired by the end of the day to think clearly about a means of removing himself from this situation.

It was tiredness that had caused him to be chained to the flogging board yet again. He had, stupidly, questioned an order from Newman, and the man had flown into a rage at his insolence. The punishment had, at least, been relatively light – only fifty lashes this time – but it was the long, uncomfortable time of being left chained to the board that formed the majority of the punishment for Spock. Uncomfortable as it was, he would have used the time to sleep or meditate, but for the fact that every passer-by had orders to make sure any person on the board did not use the time to indulge in laziness. The period on the board was meant as a time of reflection on one’s wrongdoing.

His hands, chained above his head, had long since passed the point of pins and needles. He could not even feel them any more. He had been leaning against the board since midday and dark was falling as he heard the slaves lining up in the yard for their evening meal. Spock was lethargic with cold and exhaustion, his head resting against the wooden board as he idly watched movement around him out of the corners of his eyes. He listened to the clatter of the bowls being distributed, the heavy clank of the food vat being put down on the ground, and then a thick silence falling as the slaves set themselves to consuming everything that they had been deemed deserving of being given. Spock felt a brief spike of jealousy. As disgusting as it was, the food was at least food, and it was often warm. His throat was parched with thirst, and his stomach churned on its emptiness at the knowledge of everyone else at their food. It would be another three hours, at least, until he was allowed water to quench his thirst.

Spock closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that at this time very little attention would be given to him. He could, at least, gain a little rest while the others ate.

He came out of his half-sleep to realise that it was a good deal colder and a good deal darker. He could hear the sound of chains and shuffling feet, and knew that it was the end of the day, at least for the slaves, and they were being herded into the shed and secured for the night. Spock stirred slightly on the board, relieving the pressure of the wood on his bare chest for a few moments, feeling the welts on his back sting and pulse as he moved. He opened his mouth stiffly, trying to work some saliva into it.

And then he heard swaggering footsteps – maybe five or six people – and the loud, careless voices of youths. Of course, Master Robert, Master Heaton’s only son, had invited a group of his friends to the house that day. They had been lounging about the yard all day, laughing at and taunting the slaves, who could do nothing but pretend not to hear them. Master Robert was eighteen, and he acted every inch of his age, with a swaggering self-importance that was inflated by his sense of innate superiority over everyone on the farm but his father.

‘…got to do the fucking animals,’ he was saying as he came into the yard. ‘Dad’ll have me if I don’t give this one his water…’

Spock closed his eyes briefly. As far as he was capable of the emotion, he hated Master Robert. Everything about the boy was unpleasant. He treated the slaves as if they were his personal kicking bags, and no one spoke a word against him.

The boy came into his field of vision. Spock watched him as he dipped a bucket into a filthy water trough, then swaggered over to the Vulcan, his friends in tow. Robert said nothing to him – he simply lifted the bucket to Spock’s lips and began to tip. Spock gulped at the cold liquid as it ran over his face and down his neck, grateful for it despite its method of delivery.

Another young, masculine voice spoke behind him.

‘So, Rob, have you ever fucked a man before?’

A ripple of laughter ran round the group, but Spock stiffened as if he had been slapped. He held his breath as Master Robert took the bucket away.

‘I’ve had plenty of women, why would I fuck a man?’ Master Robert asked with exaggerated lightness, casting the bucket aside. ‘Why a slave?’

The other boy moved closer behind Spock, who leant frozen against the board. He could smell alcohol in the air, and the scent of a native leaf that acted as a stimulant. They must have been drinking and chewing the leaves all night.

‘Oh, to show him who’s in control,’ the boy said. ‘To keep him in his place. This one must be uppity, or why’d he be on the flogging board? You’ve got to show them where they belong.’

There was a moment of silence, and then Master Robert said with a nervous laugh, ‘I will if you will.’

Every muscle in Spock’s body contracted as he began to realise that what he had taken as idle displays of bravado were turning into something more serious. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had in his life.

‘Master Robert,’ he began in a low voice that was rough with pain and fatigue. ‘Please, consider what you are proposing…’

A blow struck him in the side, and another of the group said, ‘Shut up, slave. Don’t fucking tell your masters what to do.’

‘Please,’ Spock tried again. ‘Master Robert, sir – please. You have given me my water. Now, please, leave me alone…’

A ripple of laughter ran round the group. Fingers dug under the edge of the ruined top that Spock wore about his waist, ripping it away from him and throwing it to the ground. A hand clenched at his buttock through the underpants that so far he had managed to keep possession of, as if assessing his condition.

‘There’s no one here, is there?’ another of the boys asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

‘No,’ Master Robert said carelessly. ‘No one comes into the yard when the animals are locked up. There’s no need.’ He came very close up behind the Vulcan’s back, and said quietly into his ear, ‘Be silent, or we’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

Spock could not quite believe that Master Robert _would_ actually have the courage to kill him. Above all, he was a coward. But he nodded nonetheless. There was no logic in angering the boy. He rested his forehead on the wooden board he was chained to, attempting to steady his breathing and calm his thoughts in the face of what he knew was about to happen.

He felt the blade of a knife slip under the fabric of his underpants at his hip, and the garment was stretched taut as the blade hacked the material apart. The process was repeated on the other side and the underpants were pulled from his body and flung aside. Spock’s fleeting regret at losing yet another item of clothing was swiftly replaced with clenching apprehension as he found himself utterly naked and utterly helpless.

Another soft flurry of laughter came from behind him as Master Robert’s hand slipped unceremoniously between the board and his body and began to grapple roughly at his pierced organs. Then the boy was shouldered aside, and another repeated his actions as lewd comments were passed amongst the group. Spock closed his eyes, trying to withdraw himself from reaction to what was happening. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to have been rearranged to end at that place between his legs. All he could feel were the hands touching him there, and his own heart beating, and the breath rasping in and out of his lungs.

‘Open your legs,’ Master Robert said in a low voice.

Spock held himself motionless, his only reaction being to tense his thigh muscles, keeping his legs held firmly together. Robert’s hands slipped between his legs, trying to prise them apart. Then a booted foot slammed into his ankle joint, and then kicked again at his calves. More hands joined Master Robert’s, and suddenly his pain and fatigue betrayed him, and he could no longer fight. His legs were pulled apart, his ankle chain wrenched under the bottom of the flogging board and looped about something there so that the board held his legs open at the knees.

There was a long moment of nervous silence. Spock was hanging now from his chained hands, his feet barely touching the ground where they were wrenched about the board. He closed his eyes, feeling the nervous tension in the group as much as hearing it in their small shuffling movements and quiet laughter. Then he heard the noise of liquid being poured onto the ground, and he smelt the profusion of alcohol as the drink splashed over the earth.

He focussed on that noise, trying to understand the logic of one of his would-be attackers deliberately spilling his drink. And then he gained the answer in a sudden explosion of pain, as the neck of the empty bottle was rammed into the tight hole between his legs and sunk into his body. A cry of pain was forced from him as the bottle was withdrawn and rammed in again. He clenched his fists, beating his own forehead repeatedly against the wooden board in an attempt to distract himself from the pain that seemed to be overtaking his entire body.

‘Please,’ he managed to grind out between clenched teeth. ‘Please, stop…’

The boy behind him laughed, and pushed the bottle in with extra force, and Spock groaned in pain. For a moment he was afraid he was about to vomit, but he managed to suppress the urge tightly into the bottom of his stomach. Then abruptly the boy was pushed aside and the bottle clattered to the ground, and Spock suddenly let out breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding. This was it… They had realised the gravity of their actions, and they were going to leave him alone. It could have been worse.

And then the boy who had instigated everything said in an impatient tone, ‘Don’t play with him. Fuck him. Show him you own him.’

Spock’s breath seemed to freeze again. He felt as if he had become a very small part of his own body, parcelled away and distant from what was happening. He felt a piece of sacking being thrown over his back, presumably to protect his attacker from becoming dirtied by the blood there. There was a long moment of silence, and then the boy said in a tone of bravado, ‘Watch and learn. I’ll give it to him so hard he won’t know if he’s loving it or hating it.’

Spock bit his lip into his mouth. There was no point in pleading any more. It would do nothing. He was utterly incapable of preventing this from happening. He closed his eyes, and tried to close his mind too, as the boy tore his way into his body.

******

Spock stirred out of an exhausted sleep at the noise of a gate opening and closing somewhere behind him. His awareness grew, first of an incapacitating chill through his entire body, and of the feeling of the wooden board against his chest. Then he became aware of aching, unending pain in his wrists and shoulders, his feet still dangling numbly above the ground, and of the hot, sore pain in his back, that tracked down to a tight, stinging, aching pain between his legs.

He drew in a shuddering breath, controlling the urge to release his distress in a long, low moan.

Footsteps moved across the yard. The man who had come to release him stood staring at him for a moment before coming forward to let him down. Spock knew that some evidence of the attack must be obvious. He was naked where before he had been clothed, and his ankles were still drawn about the board, and the blood must be visible on his legs, even if the traces of semen would be more difficult to see.

When the man released him Spock slumped to the floor, momentarily unable to move. Pain coursed through every joint after the night spent hanging from his wrists.

‘Get up,’ the man said roughly, throwing Spock’s scrap of clothing at him. ‘Come on.’

Spock stumbled to his knees, and knelt there, breathing heavily. The man sighed, and said in an undertone, ‘I’ll give you five minutes. I’ll bring your slop to you. But I don’t want this to happen again – do you understand?’

Spock resisted reaction. As if it had been his choice…

‘No, sir,’ he murmured.

In that one night, his life had changed from a dull misery into a nightmare. And it was his fault… There were no excuses he could give or leniency he could crave. Somehow, whatever he said, it would always be seen as his fault. There was no point in speaking at all.

He knelt on the ground, trying to control the pain in his body. His shoulders burned from their prolonged torture. His hands still felt numb and useless. His back was stiff from the whipping that had preceded all of this. And that pain in his gut… He almost sobbed. The sore, aching pain seemed to radiate through him, accentuated by sharper spasms as he moved and the dried blood over torn flesh cracked and reopened the wounds. He could only pray that infection did not set in.

But he could not pray. He had no deity to pray to.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The day passed in numbness. Spock did not know what to think. He did not know how to process his thoughts. He listened to orders and he obeyed, but he felt like little more than an automaton. Every moment was a moment closer to the rest and quiet of the shed at night, and poor as the dirty straw bed was, he needed it.

He had not felt safe here since the moment he had landed on the soil of this planet with his parachute flailing out behind him, but this was different. This was so, so different. He had thought that he only had physical pain and fatigue to contend with, not this – this – He did not know how to verbalise the thoughts in his head. There was fear prickling over every inch of his skin, no matter how hard he tried to rationalise it and push it away. The only rational thing that his mind could tell him was that he  _was_ at risk and he was quite likely to suffer any depth of predation from the people around him, and that he had  _no_ way to protect himself from that.

It was another monotonous day of picking rocks from the field and transporting them to the great pile behind the barns. The soil here seemed to grow rocks. He was thankful for that monotony because it meant that he could simply move automatically, close his mind down, look straight forward instead of at the people around him. The hard edges of the rocks pressing into his fingers felt good. That mundane feeling of geology meeting gravity meeting biology was a concrete fact that helped to pull his mind away from the cycle of psychological turmoil that insisted on whirling in his head.

Rock, walk, dump. Rock, walk, dump. When the cart was full and he pulled it up to the rock pile the distraction was better still. The solid pull of the harness over his chest and shoulders was like a species of hug with none of the unpleasant distractions of the human emotions and needs of the hugger spilling over into his mind. He let the feeling of the broad straps press over his collarbones and across his chest and felt calmed.

Pain radiated and twinged between his legs. He tried his best to ignore it and to ruthlessly push down the memories that he associated with that pain. He could not give up time to those thoughts. He must not. There were no resources here for healing. There was no Vulcan healer who could help him process the turmoil. There was nothing but routine and work, and he let every routine event be a kind of framework to hold him, to help him feel that he was safe.

He could not even wash. He so badly wanted to wash.

A sting cut across his thigh and his head jerked up. Newman was standing there shouting at him. It took a moment of staring at the moving mouth before the words actually came through into his mind.

‘I said that’s _enough_ , Vulcan. Put the cart away and go to the Brook Field. There are weeds need pulling. Take care you don’t pull any of the wheat. You can tell the difference?’

Spock stared mutely for a moment before he recalled himself enough to say, ‘Yes, sir.’

He shifted the harness from his shoulders and put the cart neatly in its place by the rock pile, taking absolute and unnecessary care to see that it was absolutely square to the wall behind it. These things mattered. Logic mattered. Mathematics mattered. Geometry mattered. It was important that the cart sat exactly twenty centimetres from the wall with no deviation. The sight of the straightness was a balm to his mind.

The rows of wheat in the Brook Field were another balm. Entirely straight, equidistant, each tiny plant sticking up green and fresh in lines amongst the chaos of the weeds. Even if he had not known what wheat looked like he would have been able to tell that was the important crop due to the straightness and regularity of the plants in their rows. He knelt down on the ground and began plucking out the tangle of invader plants, none of which were as familiar to him as the straight Earth-originated wheat. If Newman had tried to devise a perfect task to distract him he could not have done better than this.

******

Spock stumbled into the shed with the other slaves as dark was dropping softly over the world outside. He had been waiting for this moment all day, for that blessed moment of sinking onto the ground and being still. His exhaustion had reached a peak, exacerbated by pain and mental distress. His hands shook, his legs were trembling, and even his thoughts had been narrowed down to the dullest of movements. It was a relief to clip his chain onto the chain in the wall and hear it being wound back purely because it represented the opportunity to lie still and sleep.

Sleep was elusive, though. His back throbbed from his recent whipping, and although he could suppress that pain to a manageable level it was far, far harder to stop his mind from revolving uselessly on what had happened to him the night before. Recursive thoughts were profitless. He knew that. But no matter how hard he tried to move the thoughts on to something more useful, to something that would go some way to healing the psychological damage, he could not. He heard Master Robert and his friends again, he felt what he had felt, he revolved on the terrible assault on his privacy, the violation of his body.

He moved on the straw, closing his eyes, trying again to focus. He visualised his meditation flame before him and instead of trying to process his thoughts he tried to enter the void where there was no thought. It was a calm and peaceful place. His body began to melt away. He drifted. Pain became a zero, humiliation a zero. There was nothing...

A rough grating ripped his emptiness apart and he jerked out of meditation, instantly alert. The bolts to the shed door were being dragged open. Apprehension blossomed in Spock’s mind. No one ever came into the shed after the slaves were secured. It was the one time of peace and semi-privacy that they could all rely on.

The door was opened, and closed again, and a warm yellow light moved into the room. It was obviously some kind of lantern, because the light was not focussed, but it was moving with the person who held it. Footsteps moved up the central aisle, and Spock caught the voice of Master Robert, counting the stalls as he passed them in a low tone. He stopped outside Spock’s stall, and the warm light suddenly passed over Spock’s body and face. Spock looked up, forcing himself to keep his gaze fixed on Master Robert’s face. The memory of what had occurred on the flogging board was too fresh to allow him to maintain eye contact, but he would not hang his head as if he was guilty.

Master Robert smiled, and put the lantern down on the floor.

‘I want more of what I got before,’ he said softly. ‘I enjoyed it. I don’t even have to worry about getting you with child.’

Spock swallowed, every muscle in his body suddenly stiff with tension. He couldn’t endure that pain and humiliation again… He just couldn’t….

‘Please, sir,’ he began. His only option was to beg. He could not allow his pride to stop him. ‘Please, I cannot…’

‘You don’t have to do anything – just open up and take me. Turn over onto your hands and knees for me.’

Spock pressed his lips together, his mind racing, trying desperately to find something to say or do to prevent this from happening again. He could sense that there were other slaves awake in the shed, too frightened to speak, but listening to everything. There was no way they could help him. He knew that.

‘Please,’ he began again. ‘Surely if the Master knew – ’

‘Who would my father believe – me, or a dirty slave?’ Master Robert said in a harsher tone. Abruptly, he turned out the lantern, and they were left in utter darkness. ‘Now, turn over like I said and raise yourself up.’

The logical alternatives raced through his mind in a flash. They all involved a more forcible attempt at intercourse, and then great, great pain, or death. Spock turned himself slowly onto his knees. His chained hands meant that he had to rest on his elbows with his forehead against the floor.

He felt his torn shirt being lifted up to expose his rear. Then a hand stroked with silken gentleness over the curve of his buttock, and lips touched him there in a kiss. Nausea rose into his throat, but he forced himself to stay still. The hands began to roam all over him, seeking into his most private and sensitive places, teasing at the skin of his scrotum, and the fleshy expanse between that and his anus. He bit his lip into his mouth, willing himself to stay silent.

The hands stroked up his chest, lingering over his soft stomach and nipples, then coming back down to toy with the hair that began at the base of his belly, fingers slipping into the creases between his torso and his thighs, then stroking softly over his penis.

‘Oh, you’re going to give it to me, boy,’ Master Robert sighed, as if he was thinking aloud. His fingers touched the ring that pierced Spock’s foreskin and scrotum, and tugged on it sharply. Spock bit his lip over the cry of pain he wanted to utter, but he could not stop the instinctive flinch, and Master Robert laughed sadistically.

‘That’s good,’ he murmured. ‘Pain makes you tight, doesn’t it? And that just makes it feel so much better.’

He leaned forward over Spock’s arched back, and he felt in horror the hot solidity of the man’s erection brushing at his thigh. Master Robert clutched at a handful of his hair and wrenched his head back, and then he felt his lips and teeth sinking over the tip of his left ear. He sucked at it, then bit, drawing blood in his intensity, and then he twisted Spock’s head sideways, finding his lips with his own, kissing him, and then probing into his mouth against his clenched teeth. His breath reeked of alcohol and again he could smell that stimulant that came in leaf form.

‘Open up,’ he muttered, teasing his fingers through the Vulcan’s two-month growth of beard and pulling at it to try to open his mouth. ‘Come on, save yourself from more pain than you have to.’

Spock closed his eyes and relaxed his jaw, acknowledging his powerlessness, and the hot tongue slipped further into his mouth, seeking out its hollows and curves, running over his teeth and over his own tongue. He felt a moment of relief as the hot breathing mouth and soft lips pulled away from his – but then he felt the tongue trace delicately up from the top of the cleft between his buttocks and along the beginning of his spine. Then the soft hands parted him, and there was a spitting noise, and a rivulet of saliva began to trickle down to moisten his anus, and then something soft and insistent began to pressure against his resistance…

******

Spock crouched with his head on the floor, trying desperately to stay silent as he fought to suppress the spasming pain that Master Robert had left him with. He could feel the cooling trickle of semen down the back of his thigh, expelled from his body in fits and starts, but he couldn’t move his hands enough to wipe himself with the straw he knelt on. He couldn’t even rearrange the cloth around his waist so that he could cover his nakedness. Misery seemed to be crawling over every inch of him. He could not stop feeling the boy’s hands and body all over his skin, his sweat on his back, his tongue in his mouth, and that thick, solid presence inside him, touching places even he could not reach. Against his will a half-sob escaped his throat, and he bit his lip into his mouth, furiously struggling to hold in any further noise.

‘Spock?’ a voice asked, so quiet as to be almost inaudible to all but Vulcan ears.

Spock froze. He had suspected that more than one person was awake in the shed, and had heard his ordeal, but he had been hoping that they would at least pretend not to have heard what he had been subjected to. He recognised the voice easily as Benjamin in stall 13. Benjamin had learnt gradually that it was possible to speak that quietly and still have the Vulcan hear him, meaning that Spock was the only one risking punishment by speaking loudly enough for a human to hear. Spock held his breath. He usually welcomed the conversation – he very rarely shared words with anyone who was not giving him orders or punishing him – but the last thing he wanted to do right now was discuss what had happened.

‘Spock, I thought I heard – I was asleep, then I thought – ’ It was obviously almost as hard for him to voice what had happened as it was for Spock. ‘Spock, did Master Robert – just – take you?’

Spock swallowed hard, wondering at how simple misery could feel so much like having a physical lump of rock in his throat. There was no denying what had been so obvious. Master Robert had not been quiet in his climax.

‘Yes,’ he said finally, his voice rough with emotion.

‘Oh, God,’ he whispered. ‘Do – do you want to – ’

‘I _do not_ wish to speak of it,’ Spock said in a trembling voice, then added more softly, ‘Please, understand…’ He could not afford to alienate his one friend in this place.

‘All right,’ the man said, and then, mercifully, he fell silent.

Spock turned slowly onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest. The noise of his chains moving cut into the silence. He wanted to wrap his arms about himself, but his fists were pulled hard against the plate of metal with which they had replaced the back wall of his stall after his first escape attempt. He was so cold, so tired, he couldn’t stop himself trembling. He had lost the ability to control his emotions, to control his pain, to control his body… He closed his eyes, desperately trying to stop his spinning, self-torturing thoughts. He had to sleep. He could not go through a whole day of hard labour without sufficient sleep. He would make a mistake, he would end up being beaten again… He couldn’t…

He slapped himself mentally. He was descending into chaos. He couldn’t let Master Robert do that to him. Even now all he could feel was the sensation of his hands moving on his skin, his tongue moving on his skin, the pressure of that rod plunging inside him. There was nowhere he could go to escape the feelings of his own body. If he let himself, everything would disintegrate from this point on. He had to keep himself sane…

‘Ben…’ he said finally, praying that the man was still awake.

There was a short silence, then he said, ‘Yes?’

‘Please – could you speak to me? Tell me about your life, tell me one of your world’s stories – anything, please… Help me to sleep…’

‘I – haven’t had much of a life,’ he began. There was a thoughtful silence. ‘There was a tale my dad would tell me to send me to sleep. It – began in a little house by the ocean, I think. A boy called Simpson…’

Spock closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on nothing but the words, to take him away from this place, even from himself, until finally nothing existed but that quiet voice, soothing him into sleep.

 


	7. Chapter 7

He woke, as usual, cold and stiff and sore from the hard floor. But this time he had no urge to move from his huddle as the chain was wound out for him to release himself. Every time he moved patches of dried semen cracked on his skin, and he could smell it, mixed with his own faeces. Somehow this seemed worse than the first time he had been raped. This meant it could happen again and again, it meant he wasn’t even safe in his stall, it meant Master Robert had marked him out and every time he looked at him he would be thinking of him in that way. He wanted desperately to wash the remnants of sweat and fluids from his body, but the monthly disinfectant dip was a long way off, and the best he could hope for was rain.

He forced himself to move his hands, to unclip his chain and get to his feet, rearranging his loincloth back around his waist. He stepped out of his stall stiffly, his eyes focussed distantly on the shed wall, trying not to meet the eyes of those others around him who had heard the sound of his rape. He knew as he walked that the lines of semen on the backs of his thighs had picked up dust and dirt from the shed floor, and they could be seen by anyone when his torn loincloth moved. The men around him were sober and silent. Few looked at him directly and he did not encourage them to do so.

He moved through his morning routine automatically, kneeling for his breakfast without looking left or right, trying to ignore the sympathetic looks that only made it worse. When Benjamin touched him briefly on the arm it was all he could do not to lash out against him. He went to the toilet pit when it was his turn and tried desperately to expel any remaining fluid out of his body, then came back to the yard, and went silently to the task to which he was directed. The hard work, at least, drove some of the revolving misery out of his mind, sapping up the adrenaline that was making him want to break something. He was set at first to putting fence posts in near the edge of the yard, and when he brought the hammer down on the top of each post he visualised Master Robert’s head sitting on the top, somewhat like a coconut at a coconut shy in one of Earth’s fairs.

Then he was set to the work of picking weeds out from the Brook Field again, and he found himself in a line of four other men, bending constantly to grub out plants by the root and dropping them into a sack at his waist. Yesterday the work had been calming. Today, with an impatient overseer and in the company of other men with their projecting tangle of emotions and their inconsequential words, it felt like maddening work. He was so tired and his hands shook so much that picking out the weeds was fiddly and awkward. It made his back ache and his neck ache and his thighs ache, and his fingers prickled with the dry earth on them. It used up none of his adrenaline – it just increased his barely repressed misery to unbearable levels.

It was not surprising that he found himself beside Benjamin at this task – the overseer had simply assigned numbers twelve through fifteen to the work, and they had obeyed.

‘Spock,’ the man said finally. He had waited until they were at the end of the field, as far away from the overseer as they could be. They had worked faster than their companions, and Ben had waited until they had fallen behind to speak.

Spock pressed his lips together, remaining silent. He had no desire to talk and he had been hoping that Benjamin would not try.

‘Are you all right?’ Benjamin asked softly.

‘I – am not injured,’ Spock said finally, in a taut voice.

He kept staring only at the furrow before him and the green weeds that he was methodically plucking out one by one. The repetitiveness of the work at least gave him opportunity to calm his thoughts. When he found a weed that he knew was edible he quickly crammed it into his mouth and swallowed it, knowing that he needed the nourishment, but the food felt hard-edged in his throat. If he had had the choice he would have not eaten for days.

‘You seem – unhappy,’ Benjamin said awkwardly.

Spock could not help but cast a sharp look at him. ‘I have been raped,’ he said tersely, flinging a perfectly edible weed into his sack. ‘Should I be pleased?’

‘I’m – just giving you the chance to talk about it, if you want to,’ Benjamin muttered, his eyes fixed on the ground. ‘I thought you might want to now.’

Spock saw a small rock on the ground. It was their job to clear away rocks as they saw them, so he took the opportunity to pick it up and throw it as hard as he could into the hedge before him. There was little else he could do to release his raging anger and shame.

‘I do not want to talk about it,’ he said finally, turning back to the weeds. He pushed his fingers into the soil, trying to tease a strong-rooted dandelion-like plant out of the ground. ‘Rely on the fact that I will _never_ want to talk about it. Please. Do not speak of it again. Can you respect my feelings on this?’

‘All right,’ the man said after a heavy silence. ‘I’m sorry.’

Spock took in a deep breath. ‘I appreciate your sympathy – your friendship,’ he said quietly. ‘But I simply cannot – ’

‘No, I understand,’ Benjamin cut across. ‘Don’t say any more. It’s fine.’

Spock plucked at another obstinate rooted plant and dropped it into the sack.

After a long silence he asked hesitantly, ‘Has it ever happened to you? To the others? Is it a common occurrence?’

Ben shook his head. ‘Not to me. And the others… I – don’t know. Not from him, I don’t think. He’s young. He’s changed recently. Come into manhood, I think. I know sometimes the women are taken. I don’t know. I don’t look,’ he said, shaking his head again. ‘I don’t listen. I don’t want to see that happening to people.’

Spock nodded slowly, ‘Do you think – ’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Do you believe that if I were to tell someone he would be prevented from doing it again?’

Ben paused with his hand clenched around a stubborn weed. ‘Spock,’ he said in a level voice. ‘Don’t you ever speak to any of them about this. Do you understand? Master Robert’s their darling. Their baby boy. Don’t ever say a word against him. They’d kill you rather than blame him.’

Spock nodded. He was not surprised by the answer. He found another rock and pelted it into the hedge. He threw it with a force hard enough to splinter one of the branches, and he felt a primitive satisfaction at seeing the pale inside of the wood broken and exposed to the air. Then the realisation came to him. Perhaps that was how Master Robert felt. Perhaps he was consumed with such hatred and anger towards the slaves around him that he delighted in breaking them and exposing them to the air. He delighted in making them raw.

He clenched his fists briefly, then continued to pluck out weed after weed. He would not be like Master Robert. His people had spent thousands of years training themselves in the discipline of rising above anger and hatred and replacing it with peace. His only resource was himself, and he would have to heal himself. He would have to protect himself, and protecting himself meant staying alive. At all costs he would stay alive until the  _Enterprise_ found him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the overseer, far away across the field. He glanced forward at the hedge, which was poorly kept and starting to show gaps in places. If he could just slip away with enough speed, and hide. If he could just –

Ben put a hand to his arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said softly. He had been following Spock’s gaze. ‘Please, don’t. If you get through the hedge without being torn apart you’d have to get across the Lee Field. If you got across there you’d have to get through the next hedge, and then through the wire at the edge of Master Heaton’s land. But they’d be after you by then and they’d have the dogs out. If you got away from them you’ve still got the chains and the branding, and where would you go? Everyone would know you for a slave and anyone who found you would send you back. Please, don’t.’

Spock looked at the gap in the hedge again. There was barbed wire threaded through the bushes, and while he could probably push it aside it was likely that his skin would be ripped apart in places. In a very short time the dogs would be on him, snarling and biting at him. He was too tired to run fast enough. He was too tired for anything. This was not a logical time to attempt escape. He was sure the opportunity would come up again at some point, and if it did he would take it – if it offered the best chance for keeping his life. At all costs he must remain alive.

‘Has anyone ever escaped?’ he asked.

Ben pushed another handful of weeds into his sack, and shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, not from here. There was a man once tried it, got the dogs on him before he was a hundred yards down the road. Ripped such a hole in his side he died a few weeks later. Other people have tried but they were always got back. It’s not worth it. It never works. You just get hurt so badly...’

They had got to the end of the row and were close enough to the hedge to see through into the field beyond, where a few cows stood stolidly ripping grass from the ground with their mouths. When the human settlers came here they must have brought a good deal of Earth animals with them, and Spock wondered idly how that had affected the ecosystem. Introducing new species usually proved disastrous, whether they had simply been brought to a new continent on the same planet, or to a planet hundreds of light years away from their home. It would be fascinating to oversee a proper study into how such changes affected the planet.

‘Spock,’ Ben said in a low voice. ‘Spock, come on.’

He realised he had been crouching there just staring at the hedge, lost in thoughts that were mercifully far away from the reality of his situation. But he could not afford that. He could not afford to be seen slacking.

‘I am sorry,’ he murmured.

They had to turn back now and work facing the overseer. Even if he could not hear their talk at that distance he would be able to see that they were holding a conversation, if they were not very careful. Spock looked at the weeds on the ground and said, ‘My ship will be looking for me. The captain will not give up on finding me.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Ben said. The placatory tone was obvious. Spock could tell that Ben did not believe that he would be found.

‘Some stories do end well,’ Spock said, remembering the story that Ben had told him about the boy called Simpson, who lived in a house by the sea.

‘Stories are stories,’ Ben said simply, looking down at the ground, his lips barely moving.

‘When I have been retrieved by my ship, I will see that you are released from this servitude,’ Spock said resolutely.

‘Of course you will, Spock,’ Ben said.

Spock looked back to the ground and the ugly spread of weeds around the clean green shoots of wheat. His sack was growing full and he had to keep pushing the weeds down with his clenched fist. His knuckles and fingers tingled and itched from the various venoms and spikes that some of the weeds used as a defence. There were insect bites on his legs and arms. He wanted to stop and lie flat on the ground and try to enter that empty space that he had approached last night. He so desperately wanted to meditate. But he was not sure that he dared try that again.

He looked up at the bowl of the blue sky. He wished for a glimpse of the stars, but he was unlikely to see anything beyond a faint impression of them at dawn and dusk. If he could see properly into the depths of space it would be like seeing his way home.

‘Do you know any more stories, Ben?’ he asked. ‘Tell me another story.’

 


	8. Chapter 8

More months passed, and Spock could feel himself becoming a shell. Three more escape attempts had left him with nothing but branding and the scars of punishment to show for it. But he would try it again. He would try it at every logical opportunity if it meant the chance of leaving this brutal servitude and leaving the reach of Master Robert.

On his third attempt he had seen the stars. As the dogs leapt at him and brought him down he had lain on the dry ground and stared up at the night sky, very still and passive so as to stop the dogs from hurting him further. He had looked up and seen Sol and 40 Eridani, and wondered if somewhere up in that deep, dark field the  _Enterprise_ were moving, an invisible speck against the vastness of space. He had run through the specifics of his home star in his mind. Spectral type, colour index, proper motion, radial velocity, absolute magnitude... He held those facts in his mind like the beads of a rosary while the dogs growled, their teeth clenched about his arm and shoulder, while the men came, shouting, with guns to hit with and boots to kick with.

He was dragged back and whipped, branded as an escapee again, put in the box again, but on this third attempt their patience had run out. He had suffered toes broken for various misdemeanours no matter how hard he tried to avoid angering the people who believed they owned him, but this time Master Heaton had said, ‘Get the shears. Take off a toe. Maybe if he starts losing things he’ll learn.’

He had stood in the crush and closed his mind down, tried to send himself into a state of absence of all thought, but he had still felt it when the shears had closed quickly and cruelly about his little toe and severed it from his body. He had opened his eyes with a gasping jolt and looked down numbly, seeing the strangeness of that small part of his body lying on the ground. The toe was picked up and thrown to a dog nearby, and he watched the dark blood oozing from his foot until they cauterised it with the branding iron, released the crush, and took him, stumbling and supported on both sides, to the box.

It was a toe. Nothing more. He sat crouched in the box and worked at suppressing the pain of the bites, the blows, the whipping, and the new brand mark, but the worst of it all was the toe, a burning pain focussed so tightly in one small place. He held himself carefully, trying to keep the wound from the filth at the bottom of the box. Blood poisoning was a real fear. It could kill him. Above all else he had to stay alive.

He started to drift into sleep with that thought in his mind. Above all else he had to stay alive. The captain was looking for him. The captain must be looking for him. There was his flight plan on record, and the storm that had thrown him off course must have been recorded. There was not such a vast area where he could have ended up. Jim would be looking. He would be directing every resource he could towards looking. Provided Starfleet allowed him the time to spare for one lost crewmember who in all probability had died in the storm...

No. He could not allow himself to think that. One humanoid body was small, but the shuttle was larger. If they could not find the shuttle in space they would think to search the planets. There were not so many planets with a viable atmosphere and ecosystem in the area where he could have been deposited by the storm. The possibilities were narrow. Jim would be looking, and even if the  _Enterprise_ had be reassigned, well, Starfleet had other resources. Missing persons were recorded in the record, and all craft local to the area had the responsibility to search.

He settled himself as comfortably as he could against the side of the box, and slept.

  
  


******

The day following the escape attempt was one of pain and exhaustion. He had been denied his share of the slaves’ swill at breakfast and was being tasked beyond his limits as part of the punishment for his disobedience. There were no five minute breaks and he was not even accorded the chance to visit the toilet pit. Instead he was set to various monotonous  and heavy tasks in the yard, where he could be watched, where the opportunity for escape was so poor as to be non-existent.

Rain had poured down in the night, beating on the metal roof of the box and dripping through the cracks, disturbing his sleep and turning the ground outside into a mire. It was unseasonably cold – or perhaps the season was changing to autumn. Spock was uncertain of the length of the year here. The sun was hidden behind a thick swathe of cloud and occasional drizzle broke out to make the day even more miserable.

Spock was carrying a bucket of scrap iron across the yard, which resembled a no man’s land of rutted mud that was wet at the surface but hard underneath from the weeks of summer sun. Another man would have been given a load half as heavy, but Spock was not another man. He was a Vulcan, and he was being punished. The bucket was so full with old nuts and bolts and scraps of metal that the handle strained as he carried it. Every step on uneven ground sent shooting pains through his previously broken and poorly healed toes. In some ways, the one toe that had been amputated was a relief, because at least it could no longer get caught and wrenched. But the pain made him more unsure of his footing. As he walked across the yard he stumbled on a wheel rut, the handle on the bucket came loose, and the contents lurched, spilling the load of nuts and bolts across the ground. Almost immediately the cut of a cane snapped across his back, and he jerked at the pain, trying not to gasp aloud.

‘Stupid, careless,’ Newman, the overseer, began.

‘Sir, the handle – ’ he began.

‘Kneel down there until you’ve learnt to be less careless, boy,’ the man snapped.

Spock swallowed on the rising anger in his chest. He could not afford to lose control. He crouched down, putting out a hand to brush aside the scattered metal.

‘ _No_ ,’ the overseer told him, cutting at him again. ‘Just kneel. I didn’t tell you to clear up.’

Spock set his jaw, lowering himself down onto the hard, sharp bits of metal, forcing himself to push aside his reaction as each oddly shaped lump pressed into his knees and lower legs.

‘Don’t sit back on your heels,’ the overseer warned him. ‘Look straight ahead. And put your hands up on your head.’

Spock fixed his eyes mutely on middle distance and raised his hands to the top of his head.

‘Now stay like that until I release you,’ the overseer said. ‘If I catch you moving, you’ll get such a whipping you won’t want to live.’

He kept kneeling, staring straight ahead with unfocussed eyes, trying to use the stillness as an opportunity to meditate. It was certainly an opportunity to practise at pain suppression as the sharp, uneven nuts and bolts cut into his legs and knees. He felt the pain build to unbearable sharpness, then level off into a distracting continuous pressure, then change again into pulses of agony. His hands began to tingle and throb from lack of blood, and the muscles of his arms finally began screaming protest at being held up for so long. He allowed himself to be aware of time passing. The clouds finally cleared and the sun returned, moving round behind him by inches as he knelt. He had knelt for hours when he was beset with surges of dizziness. Nausea washed through him. His ears began to whistle and his vision became blotchy, despite every desperate effort to control his biological responses. Surely the overseer would release him soon?

And then suddenly he was lying face down on the ground, so consumed with overwhelming sickness and dizziness that he could barely move. Stinging pain throbbed at the edge of his eye socket, and he could smell blood. Bitter vomit rose and spilled out of his mouth. He was moaning, unable to keep himself silent.

A foot kicked into his ribs, and he recoiled, trying to blink himself into a higher awareness.

‘Get up,’ the overseer said. ‘Get back on your knees.’

He tried to form words, but nothing came out but an incoherent mumble. He struggled to push himself upwards, but the dizziness pinned him to the ground. He tried again, and again, but each time he collapsed back onto the earth.

There was a grunt of disgust from the overseer, then he said, ‘Go into the kitchen and let Ma Stoner tend to you. Or else stay lying here and we’ll see how you fare when the carts come back and roll over you.’

Spock forced himself into a slightly higher level of consciousness, aware that the threat was a very real one – he was lying precisely across one of the wheel-ruts where the heavy goods carts rumbled back into the yard, and if the drivers were ordered to carry on straight over him, they would have no choice. He pressed a shaking hand to the pain in his head, feeling the slick wetness of blood. He had fallen onto the edge of the bucket he had been carrying, and it had sliced his skin apart from his forehead to his cheek, across the edge of his eye socket. He struggled to pull himself forward. He would get no help to walk, so he had to crawl across the yard towards the house. Then he found himself being turned over onto his back on the kitchen floor, reeling in a bout of dizzy sickness, having something soft pushed under his head for the first time since he had been taken as a slave.

‘Well, I didn’t even know your kind could faint,’ a woman’s voice was saying. ‘But you sure went down like a stone when you did, didn’t you? Never seen a face that colour before.’

‘I – am not – at my peak, ma’am,’ Spock managed to say through dry lips. He still couldn’t open his eyes without the world spinning unbearably.

‘Lie there, and I’ll clean up that head,’ the woman said, brushing his long, matted hair away from his forehead. He could not suppress a soft cry of pain as hot, chemical smelling water was sluiced over the deep cut, followed by a cloth scrubbing grit and rust out of the wound. The world faded out and in again, and then he was aware of a cup being held to his lips, and cold water trickling down his chin and around his neck. He drank deeply, grateful for the chance to swallow away the bitter taste of vomit in his mouth. He was aware of something obscuring the vision from his left eye, and he lifted his hand shakily to his head to feel a thick wad of material bound across the cut by a strip about his head.

‘Can you sit up?’ the woman asked, putting a hand under his shoulder.

He tried, and then sank back down again, his head swimming, murmuring negatives. He felt as if he rose now he would simply fall straight back onto the floor again. A large part of him simply wanted to lie still and not try to recover, in order to bask in the luxury of this small amount of kindness.

‘All right. Stay there. Let me look at the rest of you while you’re there. Ugh, you’re covered in mud...’

Spock lay with his eyes closed as Ma Stoner looked him over, wiping off the worst of the mud with a damp cloth as she did. He tired to ignore the probing fingers moving over his body, forcing himself to acknowledge that for once the intrusive touching was for his benefit, not his torment.

‘You’ll have some nice pressure bruises there on your legs, boy,’ she said, probing carelessly over the deep marks where he had been forced to kneel on the bits of metal. ‘And I guess your back wouldn’t hurt for a look-over, when you’re able?’

‘No, ma’am,’ he murmured. His back was constantly sore from infected lash wounds. He had almost grown not to notice it. He tensed his hands, trying not to clench his fists, as she lifted the cloth about his waist to inspect him underneath. No matter what she intended to do, he had no right in his current position to ask her to stop.

‘I’ll disinfect that ring,’ was all she said as she doused the piercing there in the same stinging fluid she had put on his head. ‘It might not stay clean, but it’ll help.’

Part of him could only be grateful that she did not inspect further, and discover the rest of the damage done to him further round by Master Robert. Despite knowing the disinfectant would be at least of some help, he could not bear to have anyone else touch him there.

‘There,’ she said finally, having treated everything she could with that same process of bathing in disinfectant and the rough scrubbing over with a cloth. By the time she had finished with his back he felt able to begin to raise his head and focus more properly on his surroundings. He had only caught glimpses of this room before, but it was evidently a large room built both as kitchen to the house and dining room to the free servants. The only oddity was that there were two cooking stoves – one with some kind of controllable fuel burners on it, and the other simply with a heated plate that bore a huge vat of simmering food. His eyes fell on the sack next to that stove, and realised just what it was for. The sack evidently contained something called ‘bulk’, advertised to fulfil nutritional needs. This, then, was the slop that was emptied into his bowl morning and evening – the contents of the sack boiled with water and whatever other peelings, scraps and leftovers were available to throw in. Despite himself, his stomach turned at the thought of what rendered offal or detritus made up that odd, foul-tasting mixture.

‘Can you sit up now?’ Ma Stoner asked.

He tried, looking towards a chair nearby and turning towards it.

‘Not there!’ she reprimanded him swiftly, kicking out lightly at him as one might to a dog. ‘Those chairs aren’t for slaves. On the floor, if you please.’

Spock readjusted himself silently and humbly, hunching his legs up towards his body and leaning carefully against the wall behind him, hoping that that would be allowed. Without that support he didn’t think he could stay upright.

‘You need to get some food in you,’ she continued, picking up a metal animal bowl from the corner, and turning to the vat of gruel on the stove. She hovered with her hand on a ladle, then turned and looked at him, and a moment of softness passed through her face. Then she turned to the other stove and dealt two full scoops of some kind of stew into the bowl. ‘Eat it quickly and don’t tell no one,’ she said firmly. ‘Master’d thank me anyway not to have you die on your feet from malnutrition.’

Spock stared at the contents of the bowl for a moment. It was a long time since he had eaten anything pleasant and more than lukewarm. Even the lumps of meat amongst the vegetables were attractive to him, if only for the promise of protein that they held. He lifted the bowl to his mouth. She had not thought to give him a spoon – or perhaps she could not give him a spoon, because there were none specifically for the slaves. The divisions between slaves and their masters were tantamount to taboo.

He took a mouthful of the stew, and almost retched at the sensation of hot, tasteful food in his mouth. He steeled himself to swallow. It would be ridiculous to be unable to eat this good food simply because he had become so accustomed to bland, textureless swill. He could not ignore the fibrous chunks of dead animal on his tongue and catching in his teeth, but he knew it was vitally important to ingest the protein in order to heal his wounds. It was likely he had been eating a certain amount of animal flesh every day anyway, so it would be absurd to let scruples stop him. He forced himself to eat the entire bowl, but it was obvious to the watching eyes of Ma Stoner that he was beset with nausea.

‘Slaves,’ she said disgustedly, taking the empty bowl from him. ‘No point in giving you more than animals – you don’t want it anyhow.’

‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ he mumbled, keeping his eyes cast down. She was the first vaguely kind free person he had encountered here, and he did not want to jeopardise that sympathy. ‘I appreciate your kindness. I am not well.’

‘No, I can see that. You don’t do yourself no favours, you know – answering back, trying to be smart to those that own you, running off. No wonder you’re always on that whipping board. You know, the only one that spares you from worse punishment is Master Robert. Master says he’d sell you on if it weren’t for Master Robert speaking in your favour. For some reason the lad’s taken to you as his pet. You should be grateful to him.’

Spock swallowed hard on that information, for a moment unable to feel anything but the memory of Master Robert showing him just how much he had taken to him. A huge imperative surged over him to tell this woman just what it was that Master Robert did to him, in the vain hope that she could stop it – but rationality told him that it was not true, and he would only suffer worse for speaking.

‘Master Robert is very kind,’ he murmured.

The woman smiled warmly at that. ‘Here,’ she said, pulling a blanket out of a dog’s bed and throwing it into the corner near the slaves’ stove. ‘Curl up on that for a bit. Sleep.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, with nothing but honest gratitude in his voice. He still felt unable to stand, so he crawled across the floor to the blanket, smoothed it out as best he could, and curled himself up tightly on top of it, relishing the heat of the stove nearby. He half closed his eyes, trying to tone out the sharp pain in his head and the pulsing headache around it. He could see the figure of Ma Stoner moving about the kitchen through the slits between his eyelids, moving between the pots on the stove and a pile of copper pans that she was cleaning on the table. Gradually the warmth and the regularity of her movements lulled him into sleep.

  
  


 


	9. Chapter 9

He woke to find himself alone in the kitchen, his wrist chain locked to a ring in the wall by another long chain. It was dark, but it was still warm by the stove, and the room was half-lit by a flickering lamp. Someone had left a bowl of water on the floor near him, and, to his relief, what looked like a covered chamber pot. There was an odd sensation of something over his body, and he realised by the greasy feel and the smell of the cloth that it was another dog blanket, carefully laid over him while he slept. He hugged it a little closer to himself, relishing the feeling of being so warmly covered for the first time since his capture.

He moved his head a little to look about himself, and the pain suddenly hit him, as if someone was beating at the inside of his skull with a muffled hammer. The blood had dried in the cut across his face, and just moving his eyes tugged painfully at the tight skin. Then he felt the bruised soreness of his knees and shins and the fronts of his ankles and feet. He had harboured a momentary thought of escape, but he knew logically that this was not the time for it, when he was so injured. At least he would not have to repay Ma Stoner’s kindness with betrayal. Instead he drew on his skill at pain suppression, pushing the throbbing and stinging away until it was a dull sensation in the back of his mind, and let himself drift back into sleep.

The next time he awoke there was a thin, stark light in the kitchen, and the lamp had burnt itself out. It was the same light that would filter through the cracks in the shed walls just before they were ordered out in the morning, when the sun would be standing just below the horizon. He could hear the small noises outside of the stirring before the shed door was unlocked – usually it was one man alone who tended to the first tasks of the day and let the slaves out, watching over them with a loaded gun in lieu of human backup.

Spock turned his eyes towards the stove. The vat of slaves’ gruel was still there, lukewarm on the hotplate – presumably it was simply left there overnight to spare Ma Stoner from having to rise at dawn just to feed the slaves. He heard footsteps outside coming towards the door, and he huddled under the blanket, closing his eyes and feigning sleep, trying to do all he could to make himself seem small and insignificant. He barely felt capable of standing, let alone performing hard labour. He knew if the man saw him and decided to send him back outside to work it was almost inevitable that he would fail, and be beaten.

He held his breath as the footsteps came near. There was the sound of the pot being stirred, then moved on the stove, then the footsteps moved away again, and the door slammed. Spock exhaled slowly, half opening one eye to see that the vat of bulk had disappeared from the top of the stove. He closed his eyes, and let himself sleep again. It was the only thing he could do to try to recover from the injury he had received.

Then there was movement in the kitchen again, and he realised by the tone of light that it was later in the morning. The gash on his head was throbbing with tight pain, and this time he could barely open his eye. He could see feet near his face – brown leather shoes and thick, veined ankles, and he looked up discreetly to see Ma Stoner standing before the slaves’ stove, pouring half a sack of powdered bulk into the vat there. He must have made a noise, because she turned suddenly and looked down at him.

‘Decided to wake up, have you?’ she asked him. ‘You used that pot?’ she asked, touching the chamber pot with the tip of her foot.

‘No, ma’am,’ he said quietly.

‘Good. I’ll take you outside later.’

She crouched down beside him, taking his chin in her hand, pulling the bandage away from his face and moving his head left and right. Spock closed his eyes, trying to suppress the surge of dizziness that the movement caused in him.

‘Well, you got one hell of a bruise,’ she said bluntly. ‘Well swollen too. Can you open that eye?’

‘Not easily, ma’am.’

He forced himself to stay silent as she prised his eyelid open with her thumb.

‘See all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied, his jaw clenched on the grinding, throbbing pain. He lifted his hand, stopping just short of touching hers. ‘Please – it is very painful.’

‘All right,’ she said, letting his eye close again. ‘Well, it don’t look like you’ve done your eye an injury, anyway. That’s good. Master wouldn’t want you crippled. I’ll leave that bandage off now you’ve stopped bleeding too.’

She stood up abruptly, moving over to her work on the other side of the kitchen. Spock thought that she must have decided to leave him alone for now – but then she suddenly turned around and tossed a thick crust of buttered bread onto the floor in front of him.

‘There,’ she said. ‘May as well you have it as the dogs.’

Spock grabbed at the bread with almost improper haste, swiftly uttering his thanks. It was stale, and presumably destined to be thrown away, but he wasn’t about to argue with its condition. The butter on it was thick and generous – she would not have buttered it for the dogs. The sight of it seemed to tap directly into his body’s desperate need for fat and oils, and he began to cram it into his mouth before he recalled himself to decency and forced himself to take a more modest bite.

‘Sit up, boy,’ Ma Stoner told him. ‘We need to work you round to getting back on your feet.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, struggling to sit up against the wall. The world swam, and he swallowed hard, pressing the back of his head against the solidity of the wall. When he dared to open his eyes again everything had stopped moving, and he focussed slowly on the stable angles of the room about him.

At that moment the outside door opened, and Spock looked up cautiously to see Newman standing there, dominating the entry, one hand curled around the rifle he always carried. He discreetly concealed the crust of bread under the blanket, keeping his gaze cast down towards the floor.

‘Is the Vulcan fit for work?’ Newman asked, flicking his eyes carelessly over Spock’s body.

‘Not yet,’ Ma Stoner said, coming over and probing the bruise painfully with her fingers. ‘Most likely not today.’

The man fingered the rifle. ‘If he’s incapable, better shoot him than having him littering your floor.’

Spock pressed his lips together, clenching his hands under the blanket. He had learned in such situations that it was worse than useless to speak to defend himself.

‘Well, that’d be like cutting your arm off for the sake of a hangnail, wouldn’t it?’ Ma Stoner said sharply. Deliberately or not, she had positioned herself precisely between Spock and the man with the gun. ‘He’s a good worker. Master’s already livid he’s been taken out of the pool with your heavy-handedness. He wouldn’t thank you for taking him out permanently.’

‘Well – I want him to clear up the mess he made yesterday,’ Newman said. He sounded disgruntled at being spoken to in such a way by Ma Stoner, but house staff had authority over field staff, and there was nothing he could do except aim his frustration at Spock. ‘See that he does.’

‘Don’t worry. He will. You go back to your work, Jake,’ she said, opening the door to outside. ‘Let me do mine.’

‘Just see that soon he’s _my_ work again, not yours,’ Newman said menacingly, shooting a hateful look towards Spock before turning to the door.

‘You’re lucky,’ Ma Stoner said to Spock as the door closed. ‘Broken leg, or a broken arm, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop him putting a bullet in you. Now, come on. Eat that bread.’ She picked up a clean dog bowl from the floor and poured a liquid into it from the pot on the stove. ‘Drink this,’ she said, passing it to him. ‘I’ll help strengthen you.’

Spock took the bowl, his wrist chain rattling against the metal, and lifted it to his lips. It was obviously a meat-based broth, but he could smell strong herbs in it as well. Something similar to sage was the strongest. Despite the taste of meat, he could not deny that it was highly pleasant, and it softened the hard bread enough to make it easier to eat. It was encouraging that the food made him less nauseous today. Perhaps it had been his head injury making him nauseous as much as the strong taste of the food.

‘There,’ she said as he finished, tossing the bowl back into the corner. ‘Now. Can you get on your feet?’

‘I shall try, ma’am,’ Spock murmured. He steeled himself, then stood up very slowly, keeping one hand on the wall behind him. Ma Stoner’s hand gripped around his arm tightly as dizziness swooped over him. The room span around him, and sickness rose in his throat, but he managed to stay upright.

She watched his face closely, holding his arm until she was satisfied that he was not going to fall. Then she let go and took a key from a bunch at her waist, and unlocked the long chain that she had placed about his wrist chain the night before.

‘Go outside,’ she said. ‘Clean up what you split yesterday. Sooner you get that done the better.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Spock said, resisting the urge to nod along with his words. Just moving his head slightly made everything spin.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking hold of his arm again. ‘One foot in front of the other. You know how to walk.’

He didn’t think he would have made it outside without that strong hand gripping at his arm and guiding his steps. He felt as if he could barely see even out of his good eye, but he assumed it was simply the dizziness interfering with his ability to interpret what he saw. The mud of the yard squeezed between his toes as he walked, surprisingly cold to him after his night in the kitchen. It was good though – it helped to connect him to a reality outside of this dizzy haze. She took him first to the area behind the slaves’ barn where they were allowed to relieve themselves – a deep pit dug into the ground with a platform over it, holes cut into it making a rudimentary toilet. Then she helped him back to the place in the yard where he had fallen yesterday.

‘Here,’ she said finally, letting go of his arm. ‘Get down and pick those things up.’

Spock knelt very slowly and carefully on his bruised legs, putting a hand to the ground to steady himself. The bucket was still there on its side on the ground, still with his dried blood on the edge where he had fallen on it. He righted it carefully, and began at his task. The nuts and bolts had obviously been driven over and walked over, and it was not just a case of picking them up – he had to prise each one out of the mud, feeling through the ooze to check he had not missed any. It took him an inordinately long amount of time to refill the bucket, with Ma Stoner standing over him the whole time – whether for his protection or to prevent his escape he was not sure. If she imagined he would attempt escape she was grossly mistaken. Just this small task made him nauseous and dizzy, and his coordination as he attempted to pick up each small nut or bolt with his shaking hands was abysmal.

‘There,’ she said finally. He felt as if he had been kneeling here for hours, but it must only have numbered in the tens of minutes. ‘You’ll never know if you’ve got them all, and the bucket’s almost full. Pick it up and come on back into the kitchen.’

Spock steeled himself. There seemed no reason why he should not be able to carry the bucket just because of a head injury, but he felt excessively weak. He wrapped his arms about the bucket and heaved it upwards, then made his way slowly back to the house with Ma Stoner holding his arm again.

‘Put it on the counter,’ she said as they went through the door. ‘You can wash them later.’

Spock put the bucket down gratefully on the wooden counter, and paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the wood. Then Ma Stoner gave a frustrated grunt, and he forced himself to not react as he wished to as she slapped his arm hard. No matter how many small kindnesses she treated him to, she was still free, and he was still little more than an animal to her.

‘Look at that!’ she said, pointing at the floor. ‘You’ve trodden mud everywhere. Did no one ever teach you to wipe your feet on the mat?’

Spock pressed his lips together. ‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ he began. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘No, your type never does. Wouldn’t even eat unless someone gave you an order to, would you? Good God, no wonder slavery’s your natural place.’

‘I will clean it, ma’am,’ he said quietly. There was no point in arguing with her statement.

‘You’re damn right you will. There,’ she said, flinging a cloth onto the floor and then filling a pail with water and putting it down beside it. ‘Wash your hands and feet first, or you’ll just tread it everywhere again.’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ Spock said, trying to keep asperity from his voice.

He cleaned himself, and then began to swab the floor methodically. His natural desire to perform his tasks properly made him take care to clean not just the mud he had deposited, but other, more stubborn dirt as well – but his physical condition was simply not up to the task, and the dizziness and throbbing pain began to crowd back into his skull. He gasped in a sharp breath as he felt himself slipping again, dropping his head closer to the floor and trying to recover himself.

‘Hey!’ Ma Stoner said sharply, batting a hand at his arm.

Spock swallowed, murmuring, ‘I am sorry, ma’am.’ He felt as if he would fall if he opened his eyes or moved his head.

‘I’m not worried about the floor, boy. If I could find someone to clean it half as well as you’ve just done I’d be happy. But I don’t want you face down on it in a faint. I don’t have the strength to move you, and I sure as hell don’t want to call any of them outside in to help. Now, come on,’ she said, curling an arm under his chest and hefting him upwards.

He crawled in a daze across the floor and slumped onto the blanket when he reached it, torn between the imperative to thank her for her help and the surging urge to vomit. He pressed his hands over his mouth, fighting to stop himself from being sick.

‘I guess you’re hurt worse than I thought,’ Ma Stoner said, kneeling beside him. ‘Now, listen. Listen, boy,’ she said more sharply, putting a hand under his chin and raising his head. Spock gritted his teeth, forcing himself to obey when all he wanted to do was curl up on the blanket and withdraw into himself. ‘Your type are good at reading your own bodies, aren’t you? _Listen!_ ’ she urged again when he didn’t reply. ‘Do you want me to hit you until you listen? Come on.’

Spock blinked, and said stiffly, ‘I am listening, ma’am.’

‘Right. Then do what you do. Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘I – will try, ma’am,’ Spock said, trying to steady himself.

He closed his eyes again, looking into himself and trying to understand the depth of his head injury. He thought that he had probably lost consciousness – or at least, his faint had continued into unconsciousness when his head had struck the bucket. In that case, it meant some degree of concussion, which meant swelling of the tissues of the brain, and perhaps bleeding. It seemed obvious once he considered it, but perhaps it was also logical that he had not thought of it. The condition precluded the diagnosis.

‘I – have concussion, ma’am,’ he said slowly. ‘I may be bleeding into my skull. If that is true, I will get worse, not better. I – believe I need medical attention, ma’am.’

‘Well, you won’t get none here – you’re a slave, boy. If you’re going to die, best I call Newman and have him put you out of your pain here and now.’

Spock clenched his fist on the blanket. The prosaic tone of her statement chilled him.

‘I – do not need to die, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There’s a technique used by my species – I can try to heal myself. But – ’

‘But what?’ she asked sharply. ‘If you can heal yourself, then do it. I’m sure Master would order the same. He doesn’t want to lose a good worker.’

He closed his eyes. Just speaking was tiring.

‘I must enter a deep state of meditation, ma’am. It – is necessary that someone watch me. I cannot bring myself out of the trance alone. I must be shocked back to consciousness when I request it – by slapping the face, hard.’

‘Well, I’m in the kitchen all day, boy. I can watch you – and I sure as hell can slap you well enough when you need it.’

‘I – may not show the proper degree of respect as I regain consciousness,’ Spock said cautiously. ‘I – will not be myself, ma’am.’

‘Well, I’m sure you can atone for any rudeness when you’re well,’ she said. ‘How long is this meditation going to take?’

‘Perhaps as long as six hours, ma’am. There – is a risk, since it is a head injury that I attempting to heal, that I will not be successful. If that should be the case – if I should emerge with damage to my brain…’

‘If you’re incapable of work, Newman will deal with you,’ she said. ‘Go on. Do what you need to do.’

Spock nodded, and laid himself out flat on the blanket on the floor. ‘You will not need to tether me, ma’am,’ he said as he saw Ma Stoner reaching for the chain to the wall.

‘Maybe so, but I will, anyway. You’re a sly one. It’s in you to escape.’

Spock stayed silent. He could not deny her statement, so it seemed best to remain quiet. As she locked the chain back to the ring in the wall, he closed his eyes and began to sink into the first stage of the healing trance.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He came back to consciousness like a diver slowly pushing back to the surface of a deep lake – but there were tendrils holding him back, binding his arms and legs, wrapping round his chest and constricting his ribs. He couldn’t breathe… He couldn’t remember how to breathe… And then he remembered how to speak, and used the small amount of air in his lungs to wheeze, ‘Strike me. Hit me, now, nurse…’

Almost immediately the flat sting of a palm struck his face and jerked him a little closer to consciousness, and he became aware of the scents and the tenor of the light around him, and remembered that he was not in sickbay and the person striking him was not a nurse.

‘Again, please, ma’am… Please,’ he urged, confused between the need to instruct her and the imperative to address her humbly.

The hand hit again and again and he blinked, hitting true consciousness as if he had emerged into ice cold air. He gasped air in, his lungs heaving, then on the out breath managed to say, ‘Enough…’ and then remembered swiftly to add, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

He realised his hand was outstretched, about to grab her wrist, and he quickly clenched his fingers, laying his arm back down at his side.

‘You fixed?’ she asked him without preamble. ‘You don’t look much better.’

He closed his eyes, noting that his left was still sore and swollen. He lay still for a moment, analysing the condition of his internal injury, before touching his hand carefully to his head. He had known he was too malnourished and exhausted to completely heal himself, so he had concentrated his focus on the more important brain injury, and it seemed that he had been successful.

‘I – believe I have stopped the internal bleeding, ma’am,’ he said.

‘You able to get up?’

He clenched his fingers discreetly on the blanket he lay on, anger surging in him. Must they always rush him? Must they always have so little pity?

He caught his emotions in and restrained them. It was hard to regain one’s proper control so soon after a trance. Ma Stoner was by far the most compassionate person he had met here, outside of the other slaves.

‘If it is possible – I need a little time, ma’am’ he said carefully. ‘I am no longer in danger, but I am – considerably unwell.’

She gave him a long, hard look. ‘I can give you one more day, at most. Just one, do you hear me, boy?’

Spock nodded, murmuring, ‘Yes, ma’am, thank you.’

‘Longer than that, and I don’t know that I can keep them from putting you out of your pain,’ she said seriously. ‘I want you up by darkfall – you can help me wash the crockery from dinner.

But by darkfall Spock was curled on the blanket by the wall, shivering in the face of an apparently uncontrollable fever. Ma Stoner put her hand on his arm and shook him a little, then shook him harder.

‘Come on, boy,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

When he did not respond she shook harder again and slapped at his arm. The latest brand mark was directly under her stinging palm, and the shock of that sudden pain brought him closer to reality.

‘Hey. Fourteen. Come on, get on up. Sit up now.’

Spock struggled against the darkness and sickness that was crowding into his mind. He pushed himself up and found his arms were like a baby’s, weak and hard to control. He gained a sitting position and lurched back against the wall, flinching at the cold of the plasterwork on his flushed skin, but too sick to move away.

‘Come on,’ she urged him again. She knelt down, bringing herself close to him, putting an arm about his back. She was overweight and her clothes smelt of food and soap, and Spock found her presence almost unbearably comforting. ‘Come on, boy,’ she said, close to his ear. ‘Newman’ll be in soon and he needs to see you getting better. Do you want the bullet?’

‘No,’ Spock murmured. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘Then get up,’ she told him. ‘I need you to get up.’

Spock closed his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath, trying to assess his condition. His brain injury was healing. He was certain of that. He was certain there was no more internal bleeding and by now his body would be processing the blood that had leaked into his skull cavity and reabsorbing it. The fever was something else. Perhaps the cut about his eye, perhaps his toe, perhaps the lash wounds on his back. There were so many possibilities.

‘I have a fever,’ he said. His voice felt slurred.

‘I can tell that, boy,’ Ma Stoner replied, ‘but I still need you to stand up. I need you to be up when Newman comes in. No more. If you’re on that floor I’ll not be able to stop him putting a bullet in you.’

‘I understand, ma’am,’ Spock said.

He understood too well. He was of no more value than any other livestock and doctor’s bills cost money that Master Heaton would not waste. No. He corrected himself. He was of less value than other livestock. Other livestock had to be bought. What had Benjamin said about slaves? Captured, condemned. While slaves were traded as commodities they could also be gained at no cost in a way that other livestock could not.

Ma Stoner unlocked the chain that linked him to the wall, and he pushed himself up slowly. The chains on his wrists and hanging from his neck felt unbearably heavy. His legs were shaking. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from clashing together.

‘Come on,’ Ma Stoner urged him again. ‘A few steps. Come over to the sink. I want those dishes washed.’

Spock stumbled forwards. He felt as if his field of vision were greatly reduced. The corners of the kitchen seemed to disappear into a dark haze, but he knew it was just the sickness narrowing his focus down. He walked, one foot in front of the other, over to the great metal sink and leant on it, looking down at the crockery in the hot suddy water.

‘There you go,’ Ma Stoner said. ‘That’s it. Get going on those dishes. I’ll dry. We’ll be a regular production line, eh? Not often I get someone to help me in this place.’

Spock stared into the water, wondering if Ma Stoner thought that she had a hard life. Likely she did think so. Likely she did not think to compare her life with the poor beings outside in the barn.

He pushed his hands down into the soapy water and found a dishcloth there. He stood for a moment just bracing his hands on the bottom of the sink, steadying himself, feeling the blessed sensation of warm, clean water on his hands. Suddenly he recalled the  _Enterprise_ baths, immersing himself neck deep in water, cleansing himself entirely. He rarely took a full bath rather than a shower, but right now it seemed like the greatest luxury in the world.

He was methodically pushing the cloth over white ceramic plates, resting his elbows and chest against the side of the sink, when Newman came in. Spock kept working, not turning round. He had not been told to stop. He had to appear useful. He had to appear as if he were getting better.

‘Well then, Els?’ Newman asked as he came into the room.

Spock noticed in his peripheral vision that Newman did not think to stop and wipe mud from his boots on the mat. Small clods of it were trailed over the floor. He cared no more about sparing Ma Stoner trouble than the slaves.

‘He’s up. You can see that,’ Ma Stoner replied, wiping one of the plates and putting it carefully up on the shelf.

‘You’re letting him touch the house crockery,’ Newman said disapprovingly.

‘Only to wash it, and his hands are clean. I’m wiping it all off after, so no harm done,’ Ma Stoner said easily. Spock could sense her repressed dislike for the man beneath her casual tone. ‘Better he’s working than idle.’

A flush of heat and sickness moved through Spock like a wave and he braced himself against the sink again. Not now. He could not afford weakness now.

‘He doesn’t look his best,’ Newman said, coming over to stand behind Spock. He put a hand under Spock’s chin to turn his head and look more closely at the injury there. ‘Turn around boy.’

Spock allowed himself to be manhandled, keeping his gaze carefully away from Newman’s eyes. His stomach was lurching. He must not let himself vomit. He focussed his mind down to the tightest level, concentrating on a mathematical problem of immense complexity. He just needed to get through this moment of inspection.

The sound of Newman moving his rifle from hand to hand focussed him back to the present moment like a whip. He was cracking it, taking the cartridge out and examining it, slipping it back in again. Spock watched dully, trying to gather his strength and his thoughts. It was possible he was a moment away from death.

‘You’re not doing it in my kitchen. Over my dead body you’re doing it in my kitchen,’ Ma Stoner said. She grasped Spock by the arm and pushed him over toward the wall. She locked the chain back onto his wrist chain and dropped the key down into her ample bosom, so that he could not be taken outside. Spock leant against the wall, looking from Ma Stoner to Newman, dazed and bewildered and so sick and dizzy that he felt as if he were standing on the deck of a lurching ship.

‘You are  _not_ shooting this one today,’ Ma Stoner insisted, standing directly in front of Spock. She was a good deal shorter than him. Her head only came up to his shoulder, and he stood there looking over her grey-streaked head of messily caught up hair, thanking all that was for the protection of this one angry woman.

But he was going to faint. He pressed his back hard against the wall, feeling the cold against his skin and against the lash wounds that were still raw and angry. He must not faint. Against all odds, he must not faint.

‘I’ll get Master Heaton to decide,’ Newman said abruptly, and he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen into one of the rooms beyond.

Spock felt his knees give. His ears were screaming and he could barely hear through the high pitched noise. There were luminescent blotches of colour before his eyes, stealing his vision. He could not hold himself. He was sinking to the floor, and Ma Stoner had whipped around to take hold of him, letting him down as gently as she was able.

‘There. Sit there. Head down, between your knees,’ she said, sounding suddenly as if she were talking a free person, to a child maybe.

Spock sat with his knees hunched up and dropped his head as low as it would go, gasping in breath, feeling his blood pulsing through the aching, stinging cut and bruise about his eye. His stomach lurched, but he caught the vomit somewhere in his throat and pushed it back down again.

‘There you go,’ Ma Stoner said gently. ‘Feeling better? Are you better yet?’

Her anxiety was very obvious. There had been nothing but her between him and Newman’s gun. If she had been less courageous, he would have been dead now and she would be cleaning the floor of his blood.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured. He wanted to lift his head but the dizziness was still so strong that he did not dare. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I owe you my life.’

‘We’ve got Master Heaton to get through yet,’ she warned him. ‘But he’s less trigger happy than Newman, and more careful of his stock, too.’

Spock pressed his lips together hard, still trying to hold back vomit. He wanted to ask her why. Why was she doing so much to help him? Where did her compassion come from? He was afraid that if he did ask her he would burst the fragility of this precious thing and he would be left with nothing.

The door banged. Spock did not look up. He knew it was Master Heaton, and thankfully he was alone.

‘Well, Mrs Stoner?’ the man asked as soon as he had shut the door. ‘Newman wants to put this creature out of his misery, but he said you wouldn’t let him?’ He sounded amused.

‘If Newman put a bullet in everything he wanted to you’d have no stock left, sir,’ Ma Stoner said tartly.

‘We’re having to keep the dogs in the barn because of this one slave in here where they should be,’ Master Heaton reminded her. ‘I want my dogs back in here at night.’

‘Well we can’t very well keep them in here with him,’ Ma Stoner reminded him reasonably. ‘Either they’d rip him apart or he’d make them go soft on him, and then what use would they be?’

Spock sat very still with his head down, concentrating on breathing, concentrating on not letting himself pass out at this crucial moment.

‘Well, he doesn’t look quite as bad as Newman painted him,’ Master Heaton murmured, walking over to Spock. ‘Come on, boy. Stand up. Let me look at you.’

Spock swallowed. Master Heaton kicked out at his foot and caught the wound from the recently amputated toe and he could hold it no longer. He lost everything in a screaming haze and was barely even aware of his head hitting the floor.

‘Now then, now then,’ Ma Stoner was saying. Her hand was on his shoulder.

Spock blinked and murmured something, but he was not sure what he was trying to say. He wasn’t sure if he had passed out for long or he had only been down for a moment. Cold water splashed over him and he coughed and turned his head away.

‘He fainted, that’s all,’ Ma Stoner was saying, her voice turned away from Spock now. He half opened his eyes and could see Master Heaton looming over him. ‘He’s sick.’

‘If he’s that sick it’s best we let Newman do as he wants,’ Master Heaton said sharply, pushing the toe of his boot against Spock’s side. He was lying out flat now, he realised, close to the kitchen wall. He was helpless to plead for himself. He would have to trust his life to Ma Stoner again.

‘That would be a fool move. He’s one of your best workers, isn’t he, sir?’ Ma Stoner asked Master Heaton directly.

‘He is, yes,’ Master Heaton said shortly. He levelled a gaze at Spock, and Spock dropped his eyes.

‘Then I’ll keep him in the kitchen for this week, sir,’ Ma Stoner said. There was not a hint in her voice that she was begging – not a hint that she thought she would be refused. ‘He can help me about here, and I’ll get him strong for you. He had bleeding inside his skull. You’re lucky to get him back from that. A regular one wouldn’t be able to heal himself like this one has.’

Master Heaton hesitated, his cold gaze never leaving Spock’s face. Finally he said, ‘Keep him tethered, always. You can get a long chain from the chain store. Dawn next Thursday, I want him back outside, where he belongs. I don’t want to hear he’s got used to soft floors and warm beds.’

Spock resisted reaction. No matter how much better it was in the kitchen than outside, this work room was far from the soft floors and warm beds that he imagined lay further into the house. But he could relax. For now he could relax. He had been given his reprieve. If only he could fight off this infection he would survive.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Spock did not understand how he had gained the friendship of Ma Stoner apart from by crawling into her kitchen, injured and in pain. It was something he would be grateful for for the rest of his life. It was Ma Stoner who diligently cleaned and disinfected his wounds every day and who gave him medicine from her own store, making him promise never to breathe a word to anyone, slave or free. It was Ma Stoner who stood between him and Newman whenever he came into the kitchen to check on Spock’s progress, and who kept reassuring Master Heaton that his slave would be restored to work very soon, fitter than before. He was astonished to find that he had put on weight in the just over a week he had been kept in the kitchen. His ribs were less pronounced, his collarbones softer. The sores on his back were beginning to close and the cut about his eye was healing into a jagged scar. She had even cut out the worst of the matting from his hair and mostly rid his body of the parasites that were inevitable living the way he was forced to live.

Still he did not dare say anything about Master Robert. When Master Robert crept into the kitchen to find him in the still darkness of the night there was nothing he could do but remain as quiet as possible for fear of being discovered. Benjamin had been right. They would kill Spock rather than put any blame on Master Robert. He had no choice but to close his eyes and bite his lip into his mouth and put up with what happened. Here, at least, he had an old blanket to wipe himself on and wrap himself up in afterwards, and warmth to help him sleep. The damage to his body from the assaults was minimal, and as far as his mind was concerned, he pushed away every feeling that he could until it was so far gone that it barely existed.

He wondered if there were any kind of communications devices in the house. While he was here inside it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get a message to someone who could help him. But it was obvious that the place shunned technology. The stoves were fed with wood and coal, the light was simple electricity, and there were very few powered or motored devices anywhere on the farm. Perhaps this was an example of yet another human colony which had come to escape twenty-third century technology. It seemed highly likely, although Spock wasn’t familiar with the history of Alphonae Prime. There were many such colonies in far-flung reaches of the known galaxy. It always seemed highly ironic to Spock that these people had only been able to reach their ideal planets by using the newest of space flight technology. This colony, with its reliance on slavery, was no advert for the dream of getting back to basics.

He sat in quiet moments listening to what was happening in the house, able to hear far more beyond the kitchen walls than a human would. But from listening and from talking to Ma Stoner he gleaned that there were no devices for long range communications here. There was nothing beyond an old-style telephone, and contacting people on the planet would be of no help to him at all. The hope of contacting someone off-planet was folded away and put far back in his mind, for such a time as he managed to escape to somewhere with more modern technology.

He thought it might be possible to work the old ring to which he was tethered out of the wall. It might be possible to escape the house. But there were complications. It would take a long time to work the ring free and the risk of discovery was great. The chains on his wrists and ankles clattered and clanked and caught on things whenever he moved, and the extra chain linked to the ring in the wall would be yet another encumbrance. He was still not fully well. He could not run at speed due to his health and to the restrictive ankle chain. He was branded and marked clearly as a slave, and he would be able to find refuge with no one. He was legitimately fearful that if he escaped again, this time he might be killed. After a few days he realised that escape was impossible while he was here in the house, and he accepted that.

At night he lay and looked at the stars through the uncurtained window, greeting them as familiar faces and promising himself that he would leave the gravity of this planet one day. But every morning when Ma Stoner came back into the kitchen Spock was still there, huddled on the blanket by the wall, resting as well as he could. She seemed half surprised to see him each time she came in through the door, and he knew that she was expecting him to attempt escape. If she was it was likely that the others at the farm were, and that the first thing to greet him if he slipped out of the door would be a bullet.

‘There you are,’ Ma Stoner said, putting a bowl of food down in front of him.

The sun had barely risen, but the nights were drawing in and the slaves’ days had begun to overlap the night as far as it was possible for them to work without light. There was a cold, hard look to the sky outside, with nimbostratus spread from horizon to horizon. Ma Stoner had got up at dawn purely, it seemed, to be there when Spock was transferred from his current comfort in the kitchen back into the world outside.

Spock looked into the bowl, which held a mixture of old bread and other food scraps scraped from the plates the night before. It may have been leftovers, but it was still good food, and he ate it with relish.

‘Make the most of it,’ Ma Stoner said, seeing the eagerness with which he was eating. ‘This is it. Master Heaton said you need to be out of my kitchen today, and you’re well enough to go back in the slave pool, so there you go.’

Apprehension clenched in Spock’s chest. Although he had known that this was his final day he had chosen not to dwell on it. He had grown used to this relative level of comfort and kindness, and he was not sure he could bear to be returned to the cruelty of life back in the slave pool. But he had no choice. He would be put back outside and there was nothing he could do. He was not at full fitness, but he was certainly well enough to go back.

‘It’s dip day today. At least you’ll get a wash, eh?’ Ma Stoner said, slapping a hand gently at his arm.

‘Yes, indeed, ma’am,’ Spock said in a low voice, concentrating on his bowl of food. It was a relief to be able to get clean, it was true, and there were times when he longed for the dip, but in practice it was never a pleasant process, and after his week in the kitchen he felt perfectly clean.

‘You done?’ she asked. She took the bowl from him and threw it back in the corner just as the door to outside opened and Newman came in, looking grim.

‘Well, Els. No reason to keep him back today, eh?’ he asked, striding across the kitchen and stopping right in front of Spock.

‘I promised Master Heaton I’d have him on his feet by dawn Thursday, and I have,’ she said stoutly. She reached into her pocket and drew out the key to the wall chain. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’

Newman just snorted, so Ma Stoner unlocked the chain and slapped Spock lightly on the shoulder.

‘There you go. Out of my kitchen now. The dogs want their bed back.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Spock said, getting to his feet. He lifted his eyes to her face, looking directly into hers for a moment, before she looked away. ‘I am truly thankful,’ he told her sincerely.

‘Go on, get outside,’ she said brusquely. ‘Dirty creature.’

Spock turned toward the door. He was not offended by Ma Stoner’s words. While she viewed him first and foremost as a lesser being, he was fully aware of the depths of her compassion and the fact that she could not expose her feelings in front of Newman.

Newman pushed at him with the barrel of his rifle, making him move a little faster. ‘Go on. And get that vat off the stove. Don’t think you’ll be eased in. I want you to make up for the work you’ve missed. Carry that food out to the feeding station, and I might just let you have your breakfast.

Spock met Ma Stoner’s eye for a moment. Newman did not know that Spock had eaten, and Ma Stoner was obviously not about to tell him.

He picked up the vat of swill and shifted it off the stove. It felt heavy, but he would grow used to carrying heavy things again, he was sure. The chill of the dawn hit him as he walked outside, and he shivered. Newman laughed.

‘Well, it’s got soft,’ he murmured. ‘I warned Heaton he’d get soft. Going to have to toughen you up again, boy.’

Spock set his jaw, not deigning to respond. He carried the swill vat over to the feeding station and set it down, slightly uncertain of what to do next.

‘Put the bowls out, boy,’ Newman said, gesturing to the filthy stack of bowls on the ground. ‘Start filling them. And if you’re slacking when I get back you’ll get  _this_ around the head. Understand?’

He brandished the rifle like a club, and Spock nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and started to lay the bowls out on the ground. By the time he was filling them the other slaves were filing out of the shed and coming to kneel before their bowls. Next to Benjamin there was a gap.

‘Get in line,’ Newman snapped, ripping the ladle from his hand and pushing him aside. ‘That’s it. You’re back in service now. Everything back to normal.’

Spock went and knelt beside Benjamin and began to eat the swill from the bowl that he had filled himself. He had forgotten how vile ‘bulk’ tasted.

He heard Benjamin gasp as he knelt. No speaking was allowed at feeding time, but Spock saw the shock and delight in Benjamin’s eyes. Spock looked at him curiously, wondering what had prompted such emotion.

Benjamin looked cautiously over to Newman. He was carrying the empty vat over to the tap in the corner to swill it out.

‘He said he’d shot you,’ he said in the softest of whispers.

‘He has not,’ Spock replied concisely.

‘All right, wash the bowls, then line up by the dip,’ Newman shouted out, turning back from the tap in the corner. ‘Bath day today.’

The glee in his voice was disgusting to Spock. It was cold outside and the water would be colder still. No one in this line of malnourished, maltreated beings was in a fit state for being exposed to such a thing.

There were other men up and out of the house and adjoining staff lodgings now. One was filling up the dip tank, which was dug down in the ground and concrete lined, and another pouring a chemical into the swirling water. The smell was strong enough to make Spock’s eyes water. He lined up as ordered and waited for his turn. Perhaps he should have been grateful that the people here were diligent enough to try to keep their slaves a little clean at least, but he could not feel that right at this moment.

He looked upwards. The clouds were dark and all-enveloping. Just a glimpse of the stars was enough to give him extra hope, and he searched in vain for a gap to see the sky, but he knew logically that the stars were still there. Just because he could not see them did not mean that Jim was not up there, tirelessly searching.

‘Go on, fourteen,’ Newman snapped, jabbing him in the side with the rifle. ‘You think you’re above this for being allowed in the house? Well you’re not.’

Spock stepped forward to the tank, but Newman thrust him in just before he was about to step carefully into the water. He fell, floundering, his mouth and nose filling with the acrid disinfectant-filled water. Something hard pressed onto his back and held him down. He was used to that – it was how they made sure the dip did its work – but it was always a most unpleasant experience to be held under water in this way, not being sure how long it would be before the dip attendant decided to let him up. Since it was Newman attending and Newman obviously had a deep animosity for Spock, it was longer than was strictly necessary.

He rose up gasping as soon as the pressure was off his back and staggered out of the pit by way of the rusted ladder at the other end. As he clambered out he heard the splash of the next person being plunged into the water.

He stood shivering with the other slaves, corralled into a pen as they waited for the rest to be finished. It was always best to stand as close as possible to the other bodies no matter how distasteful such close contact was. Spock always felt cold after these baths and the weather was colder now than it ever had been since he had landed on this planet. His drenched hair dripped down over his shoulders and he tried to wring out as much water and dirt as he could.

‘All right, get on out and get in line,’ Newman shouted. As they lined up he looked them over and glanced down at a list in his hand, beginning to give out the tasks for the morning. Spock largely ignoring the instructions until he heard his own number. ‘Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, I want you down in the wood with Evans.’

Spock moved out with Benjamin and number fifteen, a man called Isaac. They would probably not be told what they were to be doing until they were actually down there, but just the location did not bode well. Often working there involved cutting and moving enormously large trees, and it was heavy and dangerous work. Newman had been serious about toughening him up again, it seemed.

 


	12. Chapter 12

There were times when Spock considered ‘accidentally’ injuring himself again, severely enough to be allowed time to recover in Ma Stoner’s kitchen. It was not often that he saw the woman outside, but when he did he could see the look of concern on her face. She seemed to have taken to him enough while he had been under her care that she still worried about him. But of course she could not show this. Sympathy for slaves was dangerous. It was the thin end of the wedge which would crack this network of free, convenient labour apart at the seams. Ma Stoner could do no more than look at him with concern as the weight dropped away again, his hair grew matted again, and punishment left poorly healing sores again. There was no protection for him now.

Winter hit this region of the planet hard, and Spock was not confident that he would be able to survive until the warmer weather came. The only small mercy was that in this cold he was largely spared the predation of Master Robert. The boy was far less willing to endure the cold and discomfort of the slaves’ barn in winter. But the cold was likely to prove deadly. Spock knew that. Sickness was rife amongst the slaves and even with stock, forced doses of antibiotics he saw more than one die. At night his sleep was disturbed by the coughing around him, and by his own hacking coughs from whichever new illness had settled in him. His lungs burnt and his peak flow capacity was severely curtailed. Even mild activity made him short of breath. The balance between escaping and surviving was being tilted, but ironically he knew that he was nowhere near fit enough to attempt an escape at this time. It seemed that death would come to him one way or another, and he preferred to wait for the uncertain strike of illness rather than the almost inevitable consequences of a failed escape.

He was standing in the relative shelter of a small lean-to beside one of the sheds, reaching up for the harness that was used to attach a slave to the cart or any other thing that needed the full strength of the body to pull. After sitting down outside of a break and being punished the day before he felt so cold and tired that he could have easily leant against the wall and slept. His chains had been fitted with heavy weights as part of the punishment for his ‘laziness,’ and just walking was exhausting. But he knew that if he spent too long in the shelter Newman or one of the other overseers would be in there with whip or gun to force him back outside.

The snow was falling so thickly outside that the house could not be seen across the yard and he spent a little time wondering if this was a plausible time to attempt escape. Could he slip away in this near blizzard without being seen? But he was so cold, his reactions were so poor. He could not run without starting to choke for breath. How could he manage to get any distance from the farm in this condition?

He was going to faint. He could feel it coming over him, a feeling of disassociation, of crumbling apart in his mind. Dizziness pervaded every cell of his body. He could not hear. He could not see.

And then the world reformed itself. First it was the warmth that hit him. He was still standing. He had not fainted. He had been caught by a transporter beam, and here he was in an enclosed, warm space, just standing there, staring.

He did not know what to think. He did not know how to react. The relief that surged inside him was clamped back by his dazed mind, and he just stood, and stared.

****** 

The figure that materialised on the transporter platform was thin, damaged, and almost naked, but it was undeniably Spock. In the instant the beam still held him McCoy’s eyes travelled with both professional and personal concern over the Vulcan, noting the haggard, unshaven complexion, uncut hair, and bruises, cuts, scars and dirt covering the exposed portions of his body. The blue of the filthy, torn cloth round his waist was the same blue as the pristine shirt he had worn as he left the ship eight months ago, but that seemed to be the only remnant of his previous life. He was wet and shivering. His dirt-blackened hands were held up as if engaged in some task. His wrists were circled by dark metal bands fastened together by a two foot long chain. His ankles were treated in a similar fashion. His neck was enclosed by an iron collar that sat uneasily on his jutting collarbones. The expression frozen on his face was one of tired confusion. All this McCoy saw in the few seconds before the beam released him and his muscles gained life again.

‘Spock, you green-blooded son of – ’ McCoy began amiably, unable to prevent a grin of pure relief from splitting his face.

Spock stood motionless for a moment, his head tilted downward, not seeming to focus on anyone in the room. Then he lifted his head slowly and his black eyes seemed to burn into McCoy’s own, quenching his joy as quickly as if he had been doused with ice water. There was something hauntingly, incredibly sad, and perhaps even reproachful, in his look, as if a part of his spirit had been cut out in the months he had been away.

‘Doctor,’ he said softly, in a voice almost – _almost_ – identical to how McCoy remembered it. What was different was – perhaps a loss of confidence, or just physically a loss of strength in his tone.

‘Spock, come on down here,’ McCoy said in more gentle tones, coming forward to touch his arm, noticing the minute signs of exhaustion – a lack of rigidity at the knee, the slight trembling of the chained hands, the pallor in the face. ‘My god…’ he breathed, as Spock manoeuvred ahead of him, and he caught sight of the state of the Vulcan’s back. His skin was massed with fresh, old, and infected welts and scars, presumably from some kind of lash.

‘You will want me in sick bay, I presume?’ Spock asked, still in that quiet, ridiculously controlled voice. He was walking as if each step was painful.

‘In a moment,’ McCoy muttered. ‘But just sit down here for now,’ he said, gently pressuring the Vulcan to sit on the steps of the transporter. Spock did not resist the instruction – in fact he seemed glad of it – but he tensed perceptibly as the doctor’s hands touched his shoulders. ‘My god, you’re freezing. Kyle, call for a wheelchair and a blanket,’ he said, turning to the transporter operator, who looked as appalled as he felt.

‘Right away, sir,’ Kyle nodded.

Spock’s eyes flicked briefly, almost suspiciously, to Kyle, then quickly back to middle distance. McCoy turned to his medical bag and pulled out both a hypo and a small spray dispenser.

‘It’s a strong painkiller, stronger than I’d usually give you, but – You must be in pain,’ he said, touching the hypo to Spock’s arm.

‘Yes,’ Spock admitted simply.

‘This spray is a topical anaesthetic,’ he added, liberally applying the fine, cold mist to Spock’s back. ‘It’ll make sitting in the wheelchair bearable. I don’t want you to have to walk down to sick bay.’

‘No,’ Spock agreed. He seemed without any other impulse to speak or move, but his eyes flicked briefly to the chain threaded between his ankles.

‘I can’t do anything about the fetters here, Spock. I’ll get Scotty to bring something up to sickbay to cut through them.’

‘Of course.’ Then suddenly a spark seemed to light in him. He turned to McCoy briefly as if to ask him something, then changed his mind, got to his feet and went with surprising swiftness to the transporter console. ‘Computer, scan for all humanoid lifeforms within ten square miles of my beam-up coordinates. Isolate and prepare to transport all those bearing iron bands on wrists, ankles and necks. Authorisation; Spock, Commander.’

‘Thirty-seven lifeforms isolated,’ the computer reported within a few seconds.

Spock closed his eyes briefly, performing the kind of inward memory consultation that McCoy knew in normal circumstances he rarely even had to think about. ‘That is correct. Lieutenant Kyle, please beam them to – ’ He looked at McCoy with a questioning expression. ‘Cargo bay one?’

McCoy nodded. He knew too much about Spock’s determination, even in this state, to argue with him about procedure.

‘Should be fine,’ he nodded. ‘I’ll have medical teams sent down there.’

‘Sir - ’ Kyle began uncertainly, looking at the doctor. ‘Should I consult the Captain first?’

Spock fixed McCoy with a similar look, suddenly seeming to drop the confidence he had momentarily regained.

‘Captain’s not on board, Lieutenant,’ McCoy reminded him. ‘He’s on the other side of the planet trying to get the government there to explain just why a human colony would condone such appalling slavery. That means Commander Spock is the highest ranking officer on board.’

‘And he’s – I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, guiltily glancing at Spock. ‘He’s competent to give orders?’

‘You know who you are and where you are?’ McCoy asked Spock, confident of the reply. ‘And where you’ve been? … Spock?’ he asked again, worried when the Vulcan didn’t reply instantly.

Spock snapped his attention back to McCoy as the doctor touched his arm. ‘I am sorry, Doctor. I was not paying attention.’

‘Spock, can you hear me all right?’ McCoy asked curiously, realising that until now Spock had been focussing on his mouth almost every time he had spoken. This time he had been staring at the transporter controls before him.

‘No, Doctor. I lost almost all hearing in my left ear, after a recent beating,’ Spock told him calmly. ‘The hearing in my right is not perfect. If I do not concentrate, I sometimes miss things.’

McCoy closed his eyes briefly, wondering how much more damage and trauma would be revealed as time went on. ‘I was asking you to tell me who you are, where you are, and where you’ve been,’ he repeated. ‘Just to – ’

‘To assess my competency,’ Spock nodded. ‘I am Commander Spock, I am on the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ ,’ he recited quietly. His face seemed to change as he continued, ‘For the past two hundred and sixty-nine days I have been a slave designated as number fourteen on a farmstead on Alphonae Prime.’

McCoy looked at Kyle. ‘He’s not healthy, Lieutenant, but he’s mentally competent. Follow his orders. And order medical teams down to cargo bay one to receive those poor souls you beam up.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Kyle nodded smartly, seeming relieved at that answer.

‘Now, Spock, sit down,’ McCoy urged him. ‘Before you fall down.’

Spock stared at McCoy for a moment, before glancing down at his own trembling hands. Every movement made the chain between them clink and clatter, a sound he had not been able to escape for almost nine months. McCoy realised with shock as he followed Spock’s gaze that both his wrists and his ankles were deeply afflicted with sores that could not possibly heal under the constant abrasion they suffered.

‘It is mid-afternoon on the farmstead, Doctor,’ he said calmly. ‘I have not eaten, and have barely slept, in twenty-four hours. I have been working since dawn. I would be expected to work for another four hours without sitting down, and another three hours after that before I could sleep. If I allowed myself to fall down now I would be beaten until I stood again.’

‘Yes – but you’re not there now,’ McCoy said tersely, trying to hold in his shock at that revelation. ‘You’re not working to the same imperatives, and your body doesn’t have the resources to keep going. And I want you to sit down, _now_. Now, don’t make me – ’

A switch seemed to flick in Spock’s head at those words, and he flinched away from McCoy’s hand with astonishing speed, taking himself to the corner of the transporter and seating himself back on the steps in a huddled, self-protective position. Although he was struggling to control himself, his fear was evident in every taut muscle.

‘Spock!’ McCoy gasped, hurrying over to him. ‘I didn’t mean – Good God, it’s me, McCoy. I was going to say I didn’t want to make it a medical order. That’s all.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Spock murmured, pressing his hands over his face as if he was trying to wipe away his instinctive reaction. ‘I mean – Of course. I apologise, Doctor. The words you used…’

‘What did you expect to hear, Spock?’

He shook his head wearily. ‘Any number of threats – anything to cause pain or fear or physical deprivation. I – have fully expected to die before now on hearing those words. There is very little value placed on a slave’s life.’

McCoy touched his arm lightly, trying to avoid pressure on any place that seemed injured or damaged. Every part of him wanted to rage at what Spock had gone through, but he knew such anger would help no one – least of all Spock.

‘Come on,’ he said, as the door opened and an orderly pushed a wheelchair through. He took the chair and dismissed the orderly with a nod, ignoring his shocked reaction to the sight of the ship’s first officer in such a condition. ‘Sit down here,’ he said, wrapping a blanket around the Vulcan and carefully helping him to seat himself in the chair. ‘Comfortable?’

Spock glanced up briefly. ‘I have not sat on a cushioned seat since I last set foot on this ship, Doctor.’

All the same, he could not feel entirely comfortable as he was wheeled towards the sick bay, after so long of being forbidden to sit in the company of free men, or to rest while someone else tended to him. It felt so strange. This all felt so strange. He could not take it in.

  



	13. Chapter 13

Sick bay was bright and clean and warmer still than the transporter room. It was the first time in weeks that Spock had begun to feel truly warm, and he could not quite believe in the reality of his situation. The lights seemed so bright that it was hard to see.

A moment after he was pushed through the door by McCoy, Scott entered, holding a case of tools in his arms.

‘Mr Spock,’ he said as he entered, a mixture of shock and pleasure in his voice at the sight of the Vulcan. ‘It’s been a while, sir.’

‘Quite long enough,’ Spock nodded quietly. He glanced up towards the engineer, but not quite far enough to meet his eyes.

‘Och, you sit there for now, sir,’ Scotty said quickly as he began to move. ‘I’ll make it a wee bit easier for you…’

He took out a hefty looking cutting tool, and knelt down to cut through the chains on Spock’s limbs where they joined the fetters, quietly cursing under his breath as he did so.

‘These must weigh twenty pounds apiece,’ he muttered as he lifted the chains aside and saw the weights attached. ‘And deliberately, too. Why would they do something so crazy, Mr Spock?’

Spock blinked slowly, as if he did not quite care to remember why. Finally he said, ‘I sat down to rest yesterday when I believed I was unobserved. I was not unobserved. The weights are a part of the punishment for indolence.’

‘A _part_ of the punishment?’ Scott echoed in disbelief.

‘I think I can guess the rest,’ McCoy muttered as he helped Spock stand. The contact with the wheelchair had made his back begin to bleed in places. ‘Come on, Scotty, let’s get this finished so I can start treating this mess.’

‘Aye, of course,’ Scott nodded as McCoy helped Spock onto the examination table. ‘This may take a wee while longer, Mr Spock. I don’t want to cut you.’

‘I am not – pushed for time, Mr Scott,’ Spock said gravely.

He lay staring at his wrists as Scott began the careful process of cutting through the metal of the fetters themselves. For the first time in over eight months he would be able to move his arms about freely, or take a stride of more than two feet without his foot being jerked back abruptly by a chain. He should have felt pleasure at the idea, but at the moment it simply seemed bizarre.

‘There ye go, sir,’ Scott said finally, as he lifted away the severed halves of the collar that had sat about Spock’s neck. ‘And good riddance. Will that be everything?’

Spock’s gaze seemed to flicker for a moment, then he nodded, and said softly, ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Scott. That will be all.’

‘Okay then,’ McCoy nodded, then cursed under his breath as the intercom whistled in his office. ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said, going quickly to answer the call.

Spock watched him disappear, then blinked, and looked up at Scott. ‘The intercom?’ he asked.

‘Aye, sir,’ Scott nodded.

Spock nodded, then rested his head back on the bed, accepting the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation with the current damage to his hearing. Scott took his leave and left, and he lay gazing at the ceiling above him, unable to stop himself from marvelling in his sudden change of circumstance. But when McCoy returned his face was creased with anger and frustration.

‘That was Nurse Chapel in the cargo bay, Spock,’ he said as he approached him. ‘We’ve got all thirty-seven. A lot of them are in a bad way, in more ways than one – but she’s set up triage, and they’re getting the help they need.’

‘You should attend to them, Doctor,’ Spock said.

‘They don’t need me down there,’ McCoy told him firmly. ‘I’m attending to you right now. Now, I want to see to your back, but if you wanted to shower first – ’

‘That would be – quite pleasant,’ Spock nodded, in what seemed like the greatest use of understatement McCoy had ever seen the Vulcan display.

‘Okay,’ McCoy nodded, helping him down from the table and walking with him to the ward bathroom. Perhaps unsurprisingly the Vulcan seemed hesitant to initiate actions. ‘If you use these,’ he said, leaning in to the shower to put two small bottles onto the shelf in there. ‘They should eliminate the parasites you’ve picked up. And here,’ he said, handing him a pile of towels and a robe. ‘Do you want me to take your – ’ He hesitated. Clothes seemed an exaggeration for the scrap of cloth Spock had cinched around his waist.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Spock nodded, taking a towel from him, and very carefully holding it about himself as he removed the filthy remnant of his shirt. McCoy let his gaze flicker up and down Spock’s body unobtrusively, noticing that the lash marks were not just on his back – whoever had beaten him had laid deep cuts on his arms and legs too.

‘My god,’ he murmured, looking more closely at a mark on Spock’s upper arm that he now realised was a brand mark. He had similar marks on his other arm – multiple Xs seared into his skin – but this one was by far the biggest. ‘Did they _burn_ that on?’ he asked, touching one finger very lightly to the scar.

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Spock said quietly. ‘Immediately after my capture.’

‘They must have numbed the area – ’ he began, although he imagined he knew the answer. Spock merely looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment, then looking back towards the floor. ‘But it would’ve be agony. How could you stand it?’

‘I was unable to move my arm,’ Spock said simply. ‘I could do nothing but stand it.’ He waited a beat, then said, ‘Doctor, the shower. May I – ?’

‘Oh, er – of course,’ McCoy nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I will be fine alone,’ Spock added firmly as McCoy did not move.

‘Are you sure, Spock?’

‘I have had precious little privacy recently, Doctor,’ Spock said softly. ‘Allow me this.’

McCoy nodded. The request had seemed almost like a plea, not a demand. He left the bathroom absorbed in concern for the Vulcan. Spock had always favoured a high level of privacy, but there was something deeper in his self-conscious but deferential attitude. He didn’t find it unexpected that Spock had lost a certain amount of his confidence after having spent so long being utterly subject to other people’s orders, but it was so unlike the Vulcan he knew that it was hard to accept.

He left him for what seemed like a reasonable amount of time, but as the minutes ticked away he became more and more concerned.

‘Spock, are you okay?’ he asked finally, peering cautiously round the door. He could see the Vulcan’s lank form through the translucent shower screen, the flesh tones stronger where he leant against the glass. The dark wounds on his back were visible even through the frosted panel. He could tell just from the steam that the Vulcan had the water temperature set far higher than he would recommend for a human, and it was blasting at its fullest strength against every surface.

‘Spock?’ he asked more loudly, remembering the Vulcan’s damaged hearing. He knocked on the glass, and Spock started as if he had been hit. ‘Spock, are you all right?’ he repeated. He could tell through the glass that Spock’s poise had gone from slumped to holding tension in every muscle.

‘Fine, Doctor,’ he said after a moment’s pause. ‘Quite fine.’

‘Spock – were you asleep?’ McCoy asked curiously.

‘No, sir!’ the Vulcan replied, his tone one of total instinct. He began to turn as if seeking to resume his task, then realised he was not working, and stopped. ‘I – Perhaps, for a moment,’ he nodded finally.

‘Are you ready to get out?’

Spock hesitated again, then said,  ‘Yes.’

‘Here,’ McCoy said as he turned the water off, handing him a towel through the door, then passing the bathrobe in for him to tie around himself.

‘I am sorry, Doctor. I did not mean to concern you,’ Spock said as he stepped out of the shower. ‘Perhaps you are right about my not working to the same imperatives now I am free.’

‘You’re exhausted,’ McCoy said softly. ‘Even Vulcans are allowed to succumb to exhaustion. By the look of you you’re suffering from some kind of infection or viral illness. No wonder you’re falling asleep on your feet.’

‘I have been unwell,’ Spock nodded. ‘Which is why I was foolish enough to sit down and rest yesterday.’

He stood looking about himself as he scrubbed water out of his matted but clean hair.

‘Looking for something?’

‘My – clothes,’ Spock said hesitantly, as if he did not want to voice the thought.

‘That bit of shirt?’ McCoy asked him. ‘I was going to put it in the disposal, Spock. You – want it?’

‘No,’ he said slowly. Confusion seemed to be washing over him in waves. ‘No, of course not. It is – it was – all I possessed. All I was permitted to use, at any rate. It was made clear to me that even that was not mine. I had to be – vigilant – in order to keep hold of anything that I might want to keep.’

‘Well, as soon as I’m done treating you, you can get fitted up head to toe in new clothes,’ McCoy reassured him with a smile, walking him out of the bathroom and back into the examination room. ‘You’ll get used to it, Spock,’ he added reassuringly. ‘You haven’t been back long. It’ll take a while for your automatic responses to change. Now, if you’ll hop up on your front on the table, I’ll see to your back.’

‘Of course,’ Spock nodded, but McCoy noticed a distinct awkwardness in the way he tried to manoeuvre himself onto the table, out of his bathrobe and under the sheet McCoy gave him without exposing any more skin than necessary. The doctor folded the sheet back to expose his back and began to carefully clean and treat the freshest of the lash marks on his back. The scars, and some of the worst, deepest whip cuts, would have to wait for later. There was too much to do. He had fresh bruises on old bruises, cuts overlaying cuts, rings of sores where the neck and limb fetters had sat. When the actual wounds were dealt with there was plenty more that could be fixed. The soles of his feet were hard and cracked from walking barefoot on harsh ground, his palms and the undersides of his fingers were thick with callouses, and there were odd callous marks over his shoulders, chest and back as if he had frequently been put in some kind of harness that rubbed unrelentingly. His toes looked twisted and painful, as if they had been broken at some point and healed without treatment. The smallest toe on one foot was missing. The brand marks on his arms and thigh were healed into dark scars, permanently marking him out as property. All of that could be treated, but it would be a cosmetic treatment, rather than the urgent attention that his wounds required.

McCoy moved his hand down towards the base of Spock’s back, where some of the lash marks reached down below his waist. For a brief second the indictors above the bed for blood pressure and breathing flicked upwards, then dipped even lower than before, as if a panicked reaction had been crushed and replaced with artificial calm.

‘Sorry,’ McCoy muttered, continuing to tend to the deep cut mark that reached down onto his buttock. ‘I know it must hurt like hell.’

‘Yes,’ Spock murmured distractedly. His hands were clenched on the edge of the bed as if he was holding on in a storm, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

‘Well, at least you got away with the external damage,’ McCoy said consolingly. ‘I was speaking to my colleagues down in the cargo bay while you were in the shower. Some of the women were raped, you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Spock said very quietly, his eyes focussed resolutely on the other side of the room.

Something in his response made McCoy suspicious. He reassessed the bruises on Spock’s arms and legs – the long, dark marks of fingers pressing cruelly into his flesh. He had noticed similar marks on his hips, but not taken full note of them. He lifted his scanner surreptitiously and let it hover over the Vulcan’s pelvis.

‘When were you raped, Spock?’ he asked softly, not giving him the opportunity to deny the fact.

Spock’s eyes seemed to darken, as if he was shutting down the view into his mind from outside. His fingers tightened minutely on the edges of the table, and the indicator above him showed his heart rate increasing. For a moment it seemed as if he was trying to think of something to say, then he pressed his lips closed. McCoy carried on very gently cleaning infection out of one of his wounds.

‘I can see the worst of your injuries from the scan I just did, Spock,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve got unhealed rectal tearing. You’ve got an infection that’s moving into your pelvis. There’s bruising around your hips and thighs consistent with physical coercion. Is there any logic in denying it?’

‘There has been a notable absence of logic in my life of late,’ Spock murmured, keeping his gaze turned away.

McCoy sighed, then turned to pick up a stool and sit down next to the Vulcan. ‘Spock, I need to be able to treat you,’ he said softly. ‘I know this must be incredibly hard for you, but please, talk to me. When were you raped?’

  
  


 


	14. Chapter 14

Spock stared at the wall in sick bay, a look of indefinable emotion, and then of forced determination, passing over his face. His mouth worked for a moment as if he was having to coerce himself into speaking.

‘Spock,’ McCoy said again. ‘Please. You know how important this is. You need to tell me what happened so I can treat you. When were you raped?’

Spock closed his eyes. He knew it was important. He knew that McCoy needed to know the history of his abuse, and that Starfleet legal would need to know the history of his abuse if he ever hoped to bring his attackers to justice. But it felt so hard. It felt so, so hard.

‘It began some time after my capture,’ he said eventually, opening his eyes again, staring at the grey reality of the wall. It was hard to believe in the reality of that wall after all this time. ‘Two months after I crashed on Alphonae Prime, I believe. I was taken into slavery the same day as I landed...’

‘The first people who found you,’ McCoy murmured.

‘The first people I came across,’ Spock nodded. ‘I managed to land safely by parachute. The shuttle was lost. I attempted to aim it for one of the oceans before I jumped.’

‘All right,’ McCoy said.

‘I encountered a man who took me to the nearest farm to, as I thought, get help. But as it turned out he had no such intentions. He discovered that I was alone and without help, and I had seen some of the other slaves working there. I – suppose I would have been a risk had they let me go on my way. So they – did not. They aimed a gun at me and – recruited me into the ranks of their slaves.’

‘And it happened on the farm?’ McCoy asked.

Spock could tell that McCoy was trying to be patient, but he was also aware that he was himself illogically attempting to delay the moment when he spoke of the rape. He swallowed, and steeled himself.

‘We suffered punishment very often, for quite minor offences. Whenever we were flogged we were attached to an upright board in the yard, our hands chained to a ring high up above our heads,’ he said. ‘At whatever time the flogging took place, we would be left there until morning unless we were put in the box. At dawn we would be released for work. But one time – ’

He stopped, feeling as if the words were becoming stuck in his throat. McCoy put a hand gently on his arm. ‘Go on, Spock,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m listening.’

‘It was the son of the owner. We were required to call him Master Robert,’ Spock said. ‘He came to give me water, while I was chained on the board. He was with his friends – a group of – six – I believe. He was eighteen – his friends were similar ages. I believe they had been drinking. He was complaining loudly about having to tend to the ‘animals’ – but he let me drink...’

There was a long pause as he struggled with himself. He felt as if he were half in that time, no longer safe and on the ship. Although he could see the wall, grey and steady in front of him, he could see the farm too, see Master Robert there, watching him.

‘So it happened then?’ McCoy asked softly.

Spock nodded. ‘Yes. It happened then. He and his friends. It – was a dare... They were violent. Sadistic. That was – six months ago. That was the first time it happened.’

‘The first time?’ McCoy echoed softly, almost unable to imagine the scenario Spock had just described, of taking such treatment from a teenage boy. 

‘He – ’ Spock swallowed. ‘He decided – he enjoyed the experience.’ A look of sick revulsion came over his face. ‘I had to let him – do as he wished, and remain passive for fear of worse punishment.’

‘It happened often?’ McCoy asked him, reassessing the multiple diseases and problems he would have to scan the Vulcan for.

Spock’s eyes were closed now, as if he was trying to shut out the reality of what he was recounting. ‘Often enough to be – deeply unpleasant. Infrequently enough that I could not become – accustomed to the process.’

‘You’re not supposed to be accustomed to rape,’ McCoy muttered, trying desperately to keep his anger from spilling over into his actions. ‘Spock,’ he began very carefully. ‘I’m asking you this now for medical reasons. I need to know what I might need to treat you for – and where. After that first time, was it just him, or were there others?’

‘It was always him. But occasionally also his friends, usually in groups.’

‘Were these – attacks – confined to anal rape?’

‘… mostly,’ Spock said hesitantly, keeping his eyes closed. He unclenched one hand and pressed it against his mouth as if remembering sensations he had no desire to remember. ‘I had the choice of submission or – great pain,’ he said slowly, almost guiltily.

‘You _survived_ , Spock,’ McCoy reminded him softly. ‘That was the only thing you could do. Now – did they ever force you to penetrate them?’

Spock exhaled through his nose, in something that sounded perilously close to a mirthless laugh.

‘Not quite, Doctor,’ he said faintly.

He seemed to steel himself, then turned over onto his back, and pushed the sheet down from his waist. McCoy sucked in breath as he saw the locked ring at the base of his genitals, encrusted with dirt even after the shower Spock had taken. The holes the ring ran through were inflamed and ragged, as if perhaps they had been partially torn at some time. Simply by the condition of the tissue McCoy could tell the area must be extremely painful – perhaps too painful even for Spock to attempt to wash it when he was showering.

‘They found it amusing to use the ring to hurt me,’ Spock said flatly. ‘He, in particular, derived pleasure from hurting me. But as you can see, the act itself would be quite impossible. One learns very quickly to suppress any such reaction after the first instance.’

McCoy’s jaw was clenched. He was obviously trying hard to suppress a reaction of anger and disgust. He turned away from the bed for a moment and Spock saw his shoulders tense and relax, and then he turned back.

‘I should have something that can cut through that, Spock,’ McCoy said softly, putting the sheet back over him. ‘So we won’t need to get Scotty back. And the damage looks repairable. Did they every penetrate you with any other objects?’

Spock closed his eyes, his face blanching very slightly. ‘Occasionally,’ he said flatly.

‘Okay. One last question for now, Spock. When was the last time you were raped?’

Spock took in a deep breath, staring hard at the ceiling. ‘Approximately thirty-seven hours ago.’ He closed his eyes, swallowing hard as if trying to suppress nausea.

‘Do you have any damage that needs treatment?’

‘I have had worse, without treatment. But if you deem it necessary to treat me in the event of bleeding – ’

‘Yes, I deem it very necessary,’ McCoy said grimly. ‘And if you’ve had worse, then you probably have scarring that needs to be healed too. Spock, since you’ve got so much damage, that requires quite painful treatment, I’d like to propose putting you under a general anaesthetic, and trying to get as much done then as possible. You’ve got wounds from flogging that will need deep cleaning and skin grafts. And I can get rid of that ring, repair the damage there, repair the damage from the sexual assaults, and properly clean and treat the worst of the other wounds you have. It’s not absolutely necessary to put you to sleep for any one of those procedures, but it’s a lot to put you through all together. This way you’d wake up half way to being healed, and feeling a whole lot better. Would you be willing to let me do that?’

Spock appeared to think for a moment, then nodded soberly. ‘I do not relish the idea of being conscious through such treatment. Do as you think best, Doctor. Are you ready to commence now?’

McCoy smiled.  ‘Give me ten minutes. I want to talk to you for a moment about the rest of your treatment.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s going to take time, Spock – I can’t deny that. You’re going to require intensive treatment on all those scars to regenerate healthy skin. The brand marks will require even more, because they go so deep. Probably some skin grafts will be in order, but we need to heal the deeper tissue first. Your toes – I don’t know what happened to them – ’

‘Punishment, Doctor. First breaking of the bones, then removal. As you can see, I have occasioned that punishment eleven times.’

‘I see,’ McCoy murmured. He felt sick to his stomach to think of the pain the Vulcan must have suffered. ‘Well, they’re going to need breaking and resetting, I’m afraid. I’ll do all that in a later operation, and I’ll make it as painless as possible – I’ll put a nerve inhibitor down there if needs be. The smallest toe I’ll have to genetically profile, grow in the lab and transplant.’ He regarded the Vulcan, realising that he barely seemed to be listening. ‘Spock, you’ll be all right,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll heal your body, and we’ll heal your mind too. It won’t feel like this forever.’

Spock glanced up at him with some kind of plea in his eyes. ‘I should never have let it happen,’ he said in a flat, strengthless voice. ‘My entire life I have been taught to reason with logic – to reason with others with logic. I should have been able to stop them…’

‘Spock, you can’t talk your way out of everything,’ McCoy told him softly. ‘No matter what you may feel, it’s not your fault.’

‘I gave myself up to an eighteen year old boy,’ he whispered. ‘I gave up resisting in order to save myself pain…’

‘And if you hadn’t?’ McCoy asked more sharply. ‘What would he have done, Spock? Smiled and agreed it probably wasn’t the best thing to do? What would he have done if you’d fought back?’

Spock closed his eyes. ‘Most likely he would have had me whipped, or mutilated. If I had harmed him, I would have been executed.’

‘And where’s the logic in that, Spock? We got you out of there, and we can heal you. That first time by all accounts you were utterly, utterly powerless. Any time after that, you would have been dying to prevent something that had already happened at least once. Where’s the logic in that?’

Spock looked at him dully. ‘Do you believe, doctor, that each time was only a repetition of the last? That there was no cumulative effect?’

‘No, Spock. I don’t pretend for a moment to understand the horror of what you’ve been through. But I do know – I _know_ this, Spock – that you can bear absolutely _no_ blame for it happening. No one would expect you to die rather than be raped.’


	15. Chapter 15

When he woke he  _ached_ everywhere, but he wasn’t acutely conscious of pain. The bed was so soft around him that he felt as if he were cocooned in something created by nature. McCoy’s drugs had, as always, left his mouth dry and filled with an odd, metallic taste, but there was an ease in his limbs that he had not felt for a long time, as if every muscle had been carefully filled with a relaxant.

He was not alone. He could tell that before he opened his eyes. He blinked, focussing on the gold of a shirt, and then the smiling, familiar face of his captain.

‘I always wondered what you’d look like with a beard,’ Kirk said quietly.

He managed to raise a hand to his face long enough to touch his fingers to the eight months growth of beard there, then slipped back into sleep.

Then all he could feel was the hateful oppression of a body coming down over his, pressing him face down onto the straw-strewn concrete. He struggled desperately, pushing with his hands, but he could already feel the pain of the erection pushing into him, and he could barely breathe. Darkness was closing in on him. A voice was endlessly taunting him...

He kept pushing away, his wrists straining against the chain, and fingers were slipping into his, struggling with him, trying to stop him fighting. For once he tried desperately, even knowing it was no use, crying out, ‘Please, sir, please not now. Please not this time…’

Then the voice became clearer, and he realised it was repeating, ‘Spock! Spock! Stop it. Calm down!’

Just the fact that his own name was being used was enough to call him into reality, and he forced his eyes open to see Jim bending over him, trying to stop his flailing by holding his hands. He realised slowly that he had been dreaming, but this time instead of being slapped back into the reality of the farmstead and the nightmare coming true, he was lying in a soft bed under warm covers, and no one was trying to hurt him.

‘Spock!’ Kirk said again, seeing he was calming slowly. ‘It’s the drugs. They’re confusing you. Come out of it.’

He caught his breath, struggling to compose himself, trying to withdraw his hands from Kirk’s grip.

‘Please,’ he urged desperately, unable to disassociate the touch from the preliminary to being manhandled into position by his tormentor. ‘Please, let go…’

‘You have to stay still,’ Kirk said firmly. ‘Stay still, and stay on your side.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured. ‘Please…’

‘All right,’ Kirk nodded, slowly letting go of his hands. ‘But don’t try to get up. Spock. Are you listening?’

He nodded slowly, focusing on Kirk’s face again. Then he looked down at his hands, and realised the sensation of the fetters on him was in fact the restriction of bandages where the manacles had been.

‘McCoy says you have a catheter in. If you move too much you’ll rip it out. And you shouldn’t lie on your back.’

‘No, of course,’ Spock nodded more calmly. He realised he was lying on his side, and that everything hurt, and the pain in his rectum was not just in the dream. His chest was still burning and he felt cast down with illness.

‘He had to reduce the painkillers so you could wake up naturally,’ Kirk continued. ‘I guess it hurts a lot?’

Spock swallowed, acutely conscious of the pain in his groin and through his pelvis. Surely just by looking at him his shame was obvious?

‘McCoy has told you everything?’ he asked quietly, not looking at his captain.

‘I put my head round the door during the surgery and saw the doc treating your back. Then he shooed me away. He told me I’d have to ask you what you’d been through,’ he said, with a slight edge of chagrin in his voice. ‘He couldn’t break your medical confidentiality. But, Spock, I really need to know how you were treated. I need to be able to report to Command.’

Spock nodded silently. Part of him almost wished that McCoy  _had_ told Kirk everything, to save him the distress of having to confess it all himself.

‘I guess you were beaten, for a start,’ Kirk prompted him. ‘Your back looked terrible. And Scotty told me your hands and feet were chained, and you had a collar around your neck.’

‘Yes,’ Spock nodded.

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’ Kirk asked.

Spock closed his eyes, a wave of pain flowing through his body, bringing sickness to his stomach.

‘Spock, I’ve got thirty-seven men and women in the cargo bay beamed up on your authorisation,’ Kirk said more tersely. ‘I can see they’ve been treated terribly, and as humans they’re guaranteed a certain amount of Federation protection no matter what planet they belong to, but this isn’t a Federation planet and slavery isn’t necessarily illegal. I have to prove inhumane treatment, and I really need to be able to detail what _you_ went through to prove this isn’t just an inflated asylum claim. And if we want to bring anything meaningful against them for _your_ abduction, apart from unlawful imprisonment, I need to prove that _you_ were treated inhumanely.’

‘Inhumanely?’ Spock’s eyes blazed momentarily, with a look that must have reached below all of the logical disciplines he usually held in place. ‘If it is humanity’s way to hold sentient beings in chains, feed them to the bare margins of existence, give them concrete and straw as a bed, work them for seventeen hours a day, and beat and mutilate them when they do not perform, then I do not wish to be part of humanity.’

‘ _Spock_ ,’ Kirk said firmly.

Spock closed his eyes. ‘Captain, I apologise for my tone,’ he said, the effort to control making his voice shake. It was hard to push away the underlying association that speaking in such a way would result in a vicious flogging. ‘But Dr McCoy knows of the worst of my treatment. I have recounted things to him that I –  _cannot_ – speak of any more. Not at the moment. Tell the doctor I have authorised him to give up my medical details to you, for your report.’

‘All right, Spock,’ Kirk said more gently, touching a hand to his arm. It was obvious that the Vulcan was reacting to some deep emotional trauma, and trying his best to stay controlled under it. ‘I understand. I’ll speak to Bones, then I’ll come back and see you again.’

Spock lay very still in the bed as Kirk stood up. He watched him walk away across the room, and then closed his eyes, trying to sink back into a natural sleep, where hopefully more healing would occur.

******

‘Well, Jim?’ McCoy asked as Kirk entered his office. He looked tired, as perhaps he had a right to be after performing hours of surgery on one patient.

Kirk grimaced. ‘He went all Vulcan on me, Bones. Tight lipped as a clam. But he said to tell you that you could tell me. Now, what  _is_ it, Bones? What could they’ve done to him down there that he can’t bring himself to talk about to me?’

‘Jim, sit down,’ McCoy said, nodding towards the chair on the other side of his desk. He waited until Kirk had seated himself, then poured a dark liquid into two glasses, and pushed one across the table. ‘You’ve seen him now,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve seen the condition he’s in.’

Kirk picked up his glass and turned it in his hands, taking in the scent of the bourbon before raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip. Warmth spread through him.

‘I’m not a doctor, Bones,’ he said. ‘I can see he’s seriously underweight. I can see he’s not healthy. I can see he’s exhausted and in pain. But he’s – I don’t know – he’s not _Spock_. He looked – almost scared of me at times.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’s scared of _you_ in particular,’ McCoy said softly. ‘I think some very useful Vulcan survival instincts have told him to be wary of almost anybody, because for the last eight months the people he’s been around would as soon beat him as look at him. He’s had to severely modify his behaviour just to avoid pain on a day to day basis.’

‘But it’s not just that, is it, Bones?’ Kirk asked seriously, levelling his gaze at McCoy. ‘He’s not just afraid of being hit.’

'He's been whipped, he's been starved, he's been forced to work from dawn to dusk. He's been chained, branded, confined, treated worse than an animal. He's been living in fear for his life for eight months.'

‘And?’ Kirk prompted him. It was obvious there was worse to come, but he could hardly imagine what could be worse.

McCoy took a sip of his drink, then sat staring at his hands as they curled around the glass. After a moment he looked up. ‘Jim, about six months ago, he was – left chained up after a beating. As far as I can grasp he was face down on some kind of tilted board, with his hands up above his head. Helpless to defend himself. Apparently the owner’s eighteen year old son came along with five of his friends. Jim – they stripped him and gang-raped him.’

Kirk’s face paled, his hands clenching hard about his glass.  _Spock_ . Not Spock. He could not imagine that happening to Spock, imagine the trauma that he must have gone through. It was better to believe that McCoy was lying that to believe that. But there was no reason for McCoy to lie. There was no reason at all. He had seen enough of the depths of human, and non-human, nature in his years in command of a starship to know that things like that happened.

‘By what I can glean it was a horrifically painful, sadistic attack,’ McCoy continued. ‘And he couldn’t do anything to stop them. Jim, for the rest of the time he was there – for six months – the boy raped him again and again. He hasn’t given me any details apart from that first time, but I’ve seen the injuries and scarring he’s suffered. He – must have been in hell.’

‘Those bastards,’ Kirk murmured. He wanted to break something, but he fought to keep himself calm. It would do no good to anyone to smash up McCoy’s office. ‘Did anyone else know, do you think? Anyone who could’ve stopped it?’

McCoy shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine someone wouldn’t have noticed – but it doesn’t mean they would’ve cared, or bothered trying to stop it. He – all of them – were treated worse than animals. I’ve looked over the first scan results from the poor souls we beamed up. I – don’t think rape was uncommon – at least not among the women. Spock – I think he was just singled out by the lad. He’s – different, he’s not human. Maybe that just made him stand out enough.’

‘Will he be all right, Bones?’ Kirk asked. ‘Psychologically, I mean? He says he can’t talk about it.’

McCoy sighed. ‘He told me about that first time as if he was in a therapy session. He’d been waiting six months without being able to say a word to anyone, and he’s been able to tell me about it, and he’s seen that it helped to tell me. That’s a huge barrier he’s broken through. I’m not going to push him to talk about it. You shouldn’t push him either. I can’t say I understand exactly how that Vulcan mind works, but I’m going to do some reading about dealing with situations like this, contact some people on Vulcan. I think he’ll start dealing with it himself now he’s out of the situation.’

‘Are you suggesting he treats himself?’ Kirk asked doubtfully.

‘Not entirely, but that brain of his is massively flexible, and he’s the one who knows it best.’ McCoy reached out across the desk to clasp Kirk’s arm briefly. ‘Don’t worry, Jim. I’m a doctor – I’ll help him. I promise. I’ll tell you what,’ he said, bring up Spock’s file on his computer screen. ‘Let’s go through what I’ve found so far for your report, then why don’t you go back to him?’


	16. Chapter 16

For Spock the wait would have been interminable, if the after effects of the anaesthetic hadn’t slipped him back into half-sleep. He lay for a long time without thought, drifting in and out of half-waking dreams. But then he was aware of Kirk sitting next to him again, looking at him with that terrible knowledge in his eyes, and touching his forearm firmly with one hand.

Jim smiled softly. Spock was not sure what to do with the expression in his friend’s eyes. He tried to read pity there, but he couldn’t be sure of what he saw. Jim’s emotions were like an amorphous cloak around him, full of sadness of some kind.

‘Bones says the file on your injuries is about _this_ thick,’ Kirk said, holding his fingers about an inch apart. ‘Or at least it would be if it were on paper. … Spock, I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I can’t imagine…’

Spock looked at him briefly, before turning his eyes away. ‘Would you truly wish to?’

‘But a _kid_ ,’ Kirk pressed. ‘An eighteen year old boy…’

Spock closed his eyes, feeling as if he were collapsing in on himself, thoughts crushing in on him of how he might have been able to prevent it all from happening.

‘I – had no power…’ he began. For some reason he felt he needed to apologise. ‘I couldn’t – ’

‘Hey,’ Kirk said quickly, putting his hand back on his arm. ‘Spock, look at me. _Look_ at me.’

Spock opened his eyes slowly, forcing himself to regard Kirk’s face, reading the open concern in his eyes.

‘Spock, I would never for a minute think that you had _any_ choice in it. You’re right. You had _no_ power. You were held in chains. You had the threat of pain and death over you every day. And physically, too – you’re half-starved and exhausted. I guess he was about at the height of his physical strength, at that age. I just – I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, to be subjected to – that – by a boy.’

Spock didn’t reply. He suddenly couldn’t think of anything else to say. Finally he took the only refuge he could, and changed the subject.

‘My hearing seems clearer,’ he said. ‘Did the doctor say – ?’

‘He told me you had an infection in your right ear, and he’s cleaned it out and treated it, but it’s going to need ongoing treatment. He couldn’t do anything with the left for now. That’ll take another operation. Spock, are you hungry?’ he asked, trying to steer the Vulcan closer to a sense of normality. ‘You can’t’ve eaten since you got back to the ship.’

Spock frowned. ‘No, I have not eaten. I – suppose I am hungry. I have grown too used to the sensation.’

‘Well, Doc says you shouldn’t have too much at once – your stomach’s shrunken, so you need build it up. But you can have something small. Your choice,’ he said, glancing over at the ward’s replicator. ‘Is there any one thing you’d really like to have?’

Spock considered. Just the idea of having a choice was enough.

‘As a child, when I was sick, my mother would bring me mushroom soup. She considered it the closest approximation to chicken that she could give to a Vulcan.’

‘Mushroom soup it is, then,’ Kirk said, going over to the replicator. ‘You want some bread with that?’

‘Yes,’ Spock said, with the air of someone having a revelation. ‘French bread. White, with butter. It is not healthy, but – ’

‘It’s good, though, isn’t it?’ Kirk smiled, punching the codes in to the replicator. He returned with a tray with a small bowl of steaming soup placed neatly on a blue cloth, and a side plate of bread beside it. ‘Here,’ he said, arranging the tray on a portable table and adjusting it so that it was easily within his reach. ‘Dig in.’

Spock touched his fingers to the spoon almost in wonder. It had been well over eight months since he had been allowed to use cutlery. He took his first hesitant mouthful, savouring the normality of the action as much as the taste of the food. How strange it was to move his hands without the restriction and weight of a chain.

‘That’s a hell of a scar you’ve got there on your face,’ Kirk said as Spock swallowed, touching his hand to his own temple to indicate the area.

Spock touched his hand to his own face, feeling the scar that he had never seen. ‘Yes. I – fell,’ he said carefully, the memory of those few long days after he had injured himself flooding over him.

‘It wasn’t something _they_ did, then?’

‘Not directly,’ Spock said. ‘I was enduring a punishment, and I – fainted. I fell on the edge of a bucket I had been carrying.’

‘That must’ve been some punishment.’

Spock blinked slowly. ‘It was not physical. I was forced to kneel with my hands upon my head for some hours. I believe the blow caused bleeding in my brain, but I managed to correct the problem with a healing trance. That was the only time I ever experienced kindness from a person who was not enslaved as I was,’ he said slowly. ‘If it were not for Ma Stoner I believe I would have been shot.’

‘Who’s Ma Stoner?’ Kirk asked.

‘She worked in the farmhouse. She was the cook, I suppose. She worked in the kitchen, cooked all the food. She took me in when I was injured and protected me for long enough to enable me to get well. Newman, the foreman, would have shot me.’

‘So they weren’t all bad,’ Jim said.

Spock shook his head. ‘She was not. She treated me as one would treat an animal of which one is fond. I hardly encountered some of the inhabitants of the house. The females, in particular, did not interact with the slaves. The owner, Master Heaton, and his workmen and overseers – I suppose brutalised their chattel in order to be able to maintain distance between freeman and slave.’

‘Do you think that was it, Spock?’ Kirk asked. ‘Really?’

Spock considered for a long, slow moment, then he nodded. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘In order to be able to rationalise the complete subjugation of humans – and myself – they reduced us in their minds to worse than animals. They saw us as completely different beings, not worthy of pity or care.’

Kirk sat silent by the bed, rubbing his thumb across his lip. Spock watched him, still eating slowly. The taste and texture of the soup were like a gift after all that time of eating the boiled up slop that was fed to him in a filthy metal bowl outside on the rough ground. His teeth hurt as he tore at the bread. He knew that he had a certain amount of gum disease, something else that the doctor would no doubt treat. It would all be treated. All of his physical injuries would heal.

‘Jim, what will happen to the people that I had beamed up?’ he asked.

Jim seemed to jerk out of a reverie, dropping his hand from his mouth.

‘I’m not sending them back against their will,’ he said. ‘That much is certain. I’ve been down there and spoken to the authorities. They denied slavery, talked about indentured labour, said that they didn’t have control over every local authority. A lot of talk. They don’t have any physical power to bring to bear against the Federation and if I read them right I don’t think they’d want to get into a full legal fight over this. I’m playing it by ear right now.’

‘That seems – positive,’ Spock murmured.

‘Some of them want to go back to the planet, though,’ Kirk said, and Spock almost dropped his bowl.

‘They wish to _return_?’

‘No, no, no,’ Kirk muttered. ‘Not to the farm, not to slavery. But back to where they came from, back to their families. It’s their home, Spock. They don’t want to have to start out on another world.’

‘But what is to protect them from being drawn back into slavery?’ Spock asked blankly. He could not conceive of wanting to return to that danger.

Jim shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Spock. I just don’t know.’

Spock swallowed the last remains of his soup, feeling as if it were solid in his throat.

‘You will allow them to return?’ he asked.

‘If they really want to,’ Jim nodded. ‘I can’t stop them.’

‘There was a man among the slaves called Benjamin,’ Spock said. ‘He was a friend to me.’

Kirk shook his head. ‘I can’t say I know them all by name,’ he said, ‘especially their first names. But they all survived. Not all are well, but they’re all alive.’

‘I should like to see him,’ Spock said.

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ Kirk promised. ‘You look tired, Spock. Why don’t you try to grab some more sleep?’

‘I think I may,’ Spock nodded. He felt as if he were trying to catch up on eight months of lost sleep.

Kirk put his hand lightly on Spock’s shoulder and patted it gently.

‘I’ll stop back in later to see how you are, and I’ll try to find your Benjamin for you.’

*****

Spock opened his eyes abruptly. He had been in the middle of another dream where Master Robert was forcing himself on him. The dreams seemed to be coming thicker and faster now he was free than they ever had before. He forced himself bitterly to ignore the thumping panic in his side, focussing his eyes on what had disturbed him. It was a crewman he did not recognise, uniformed as a nurse – perhaps someone who had been recruited in the time he was missing – drawing a screen around the bed and coming towards him.

‘Mr Spock, I’m Nurse Jenkins,’ he said casually as he approached. ‘I’ve come to check your wounds and remove the catheter.’ He reached out a hand to the blanket. ‘If you don’t mind – ’

Spock instinctively grabbed at the edges of the blanket, holding it against himself. ‘I would rather wait for Dr McCoy,’ he said firmly.

‘Well, the doctor’s very busy with other patients, so you’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid,’ the man said.

‘ _No_ ,’ Spock said more resolutely. No matter how illogical, he could not overcome his deep unwillingness to have this stranger attending to such intimate matters. ‘I will wait.’

‘Come on, Commander,’ the man said again, reaching out to touch his wrist, as if he was about to forcibly pull his hand away from the blanket. ‘Let me do my job.’

Spock closed his eyes, swallowing hard on his illogical panic, and very, very slowly uncurling his fingers from the blanket.

‘Very well,’ he murmured. He could not think of a logical reason for refusing him. He was simply a nurse trying to do his job.

He felt the man fold the blanket back, then begin to lift the light hospital gown he wore. He swallowed again, nausea rising in his throat, feeling the fingers touching him.

‘You’re healing nicely,’ the man said.

It sounded to Spock as if he were speaking through a layer of water. He was falling into an abyss, and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t stop this man, he had no logical reason to stop him, but he thought that if he continued to touch him his ability to control would collapse completely. Shame rushed warmly over him at his lack of discipline.

‘Just a few more minutes,’ the man said. ‘I need to check the surgical wounds, and take this tube out.’

Suddenly, miserably, his stomach contents seemed to surge of their own volition out of his mouth. He was mired in confusion, curling round himself, with hands touching him, and people saying things in urgent sounding voices. Then all he was aware of was Dr McCoy’s voice very close to him, saying something that he wasn’t listening to, but which was soothing all the same.

He finally made out the words, ‘It’s all right, Spock. There’s no one else in here. You’re not back on that farm. You’re in sick bay. You’re safe here.’

‘Doctor?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, it’s all right.’

‘I – don’t know what happened,’ he admitted.

‘Nurse Jenkins was looking at you, and you panicked,’ McCoy told him gently. ‘It’s all right. I should have thought to change the shift patterns so you didn’t have a male nurse. He shouldn’t have been attending to you. I just didn’t think – ’

‘I thought – ’ he began. ‘I can’t – I couldn’t stop the memories. I thought he…’

‘I know,’ McCoy nodded. ‘That’s the curse of your eidetic memory. You asked him to stop, and he didn’t, and you overlayed what was happening here with your memories from before. I’m sorry, Spock. I didn’t realise quite how deep this went.’

‘I have not managed to meditate in a long time,’ Spock said flatly. ‘I have been having difficulty in controlling my emotions.’

‘Well, that’s completely understandable. We don’t need to take the catheter out yet, Spock. I can give you more time. I’m just going to give you a shot that will help you calm down. It’ll probably make you quite sleepy. Is that all right?’

‘Will I dream?’ Spock asked.

McCoy gave him an odd look. ‘Spock, are you having nightmares?’ he asked.

Spock nodded silently. ‘I am having great difficulty in controlling my thoughts,’ he said.

‘In that case it might be better to hold off on the sedative,’ McCoy told him. ‘It won’t help you control. But try to get some more sleep if you can. Your body’s working very hard to heal and you’re going to need a lot of rest. If you can meditate a little before you drop off that might help.’

‘I will do so, Doctor,’ Spock said. ‘Thank you.’

 


	17. Chapter 17

Spock drifted closer to wakefulness, feeling far more comfortable than he had the last time he had woken. He wondered briefly what time or what day it was. He was not sure how long it had been since he had been beamed up from the hell he had been living in. It didn’t really matter  _when_ it was, he realised – simply  _where_ he was. He was in a safe, familiar place, literally thousands of miles from the freezing shed and the dirty straw that he had been making his bed in for months.

He lay for a moment analysing the rest he had just gained. He had managed a small amount of meditation before he had fallen asleep, and this was the first proper sleep he had experienced since his rescue. He could remember no clinging, claustrophobic nightmares. He did not remember any dreams at all. He certainly felt more refreshed than he had, although still tired.

Someone’s hand was touching him, stroking rhythmically up and down his forearm with a light, warm touch. Softer fingers than either McCoy or the captain. Nurse Chapel, of course. This happened so many times. She thought he was unconscious, she thought he was asleep, and she sat beside him, sometimes for hours, touching him, comforting him, watching him. And he lay there, pretending to be as she thought he was, completely unconscious of her presence. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the fact that she continued in this devotion no matter how little he gave her in return. He suddenly compared her thankless devotion to the time he had spent on the planet below, labouring every day with no return but pain and neglect. It was not the same, but there were parallels, and for the first time guilt rose in him.

He opened his eyes. She wasn’t looking at his face. She was gazing abstractedly at the opposite wall, blue eyes unfocussed. He took time to consider the line of her jawbone, her temple, the way her hair softened the edge of her face. Quite sculptural, he thought. Except for the hair, or course. That was what made her human and alive.

‘Nurse Chapel,’ he said quietly.

She jumped, pulling her hand away as if she had been burnt. Colour flooded her face.

‘Please – continue,’ he said simply.

‘Oh, I – ’ she began.

She looked as if she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

‘I have had precious little gentleness for eight months,’ he said in a level voice. ‘Please, continue.’

She pressed her lips together as if she had no idea what to say, but she put her hand back on his arm and began to stroke again. Spock lay watching her, unwaveringly. She didn’t seem to know where to look. Eventually he saw her gaze rest on the ugly brand mark on his upper arm. Of all the things McCoy had fixed while he had been unconscious, he wished that had been one of them. There was no logic to his feeling, but it seemed that while that was there he was still  _owned_ , still marked out as Master Heaton’s own property.

‘It – isn’t sore now, is it?’ she asked.

She must have known, as a nurse, that it was no longer sore, but she seemed to need to say something.

‘No, it is no longer painful,’ Spock said. ‘There is a tightness sometimes. That’s all.’

She nodded, meeting his eyes in a silent acknowledgement that once it must have been unbearably painful. He held her gaze, reading depth upon depth in her look.

He realised abruptly that she must be familiar with every detail of his file, and suddenly he could no longer look at her. He closed his eyes, turning his head away, trying to keep emotion from reaching his face.

‘No!’ she said, her voice suddenly sharp with anger. Her hand clenched on his forearm, shaking him a little. ‘No, Mr Spock, I absolutely forbid you to be ashamed.’ Her voice softened again. ‘Please, please don’t be ashamed for what they forced on you.’

He turned his head back, forcing himself to open his eyes. He remembered that time on Platonius, when they had forced him to open his eyes to look at her, to let her see his shame. This time, at least, it was his choice. But how could it be, he wondered, that so many feelings and emotions could hang on him like tattered bandages, when he was lying safe and clean in the place that he called his home? He had hundreds of disciplines to call on that should have allowed him to process the experiences he had been through – but instead they just crowded in his brain, jeering him, mocking him for his failure.

‘Please, don’t…’ she said again.

Spock blinked slowly.

‘I am trying,’ he said softly. ‘It is not easy.’

‘No, I know,’ she said with a gentle smile.

He looked past her at the room beyond. They were entirely alone. He was not sure of the time but it seemed late. The lights were dimmed. Anything he said would be in complete confidence, he knew, and he felt desperately in need of being able to talk confidentially.

‘I seem to be able to feel him on me, all the time,’ he said slowly. ‘He is – a shadow over me when I am awake and when I am asleep.’

‘It must be incredibly difficult for you to stop ruminating on it,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I’m sorry. It will lessen with time.’

‘Is it a medical problem? Can it be resolved with medication?’ he asked with vain hope in his voice.

‘No,’ she said gently. ‘It’s psychological, but it’s not an uncommon problem. It will lessen, with time, and perhaps with counselling.’

‘Counselling,’ Spock murmured. The idea of talking about this to a stranger was repellent to him.

‘Counselling is a very human option,’ she reassured him. ‘There may be other options in your case. But if it helps you at all to talk about it – well – I’ll always be here, Mr Spock. I’ll always be ready to listen.’

Spock regarded her steadily.

‘Thank you, Christine,’ he said.

She smiled, a small, quick smile that faded away. She kept stroking his arm. She was not looking at the brand mark, but her hand was moving over other scars, old whip marks and cuts that had healed only poorly. He could feel her emotion through the touch. She was consumed with sorrow for him, sparked through with gladness that he was here and alive.

‘I was determined to survive,’ he told her. ‘I attempted escape many times, but in the end I gave up the attempts in order to survive. I knew that if I tried again I would very likely die, or be killed.’

‘Some people had given you up for dead,’ she said. ‘But not the captain, nor Dr McCoy. They kept lobbying Starfleet for permission to carry on searching. They had an idea of where you might have ended up. Ensign Chekov worked for hours on calculations for that ion storm, to try to narrow down the search area.’

‘Ensign Chekov is a very promising officer,’ Spock murmured.

Christine smiled again. ‘I’ve heard he’s been very good as a science officer while you were gone,’ she said, continuing to gently stroke his arm. ‘Fleet kept trying to send a replacement for you and the captain put them off every time. Then eventually we came to Alphonae Prime and Chekov managed to detect the remains of the shuttle. It was two miles deep in one of the oceans there, but he detected the radiation from the impulse engines.  We beamed up the wreckage and it was obvious that you’d bailed out.  From then on the captain wouldn’t leave the planet until we’d scanned every inch for your life signs. It took three days of uninterrupted scanning. Most of Alpha Shift were asleep and Lieutenant Carlson came and actually banged on the captain’s door to wake him up. She was so excited that she didn’t think to use the intercom.’

‘I take it the captain did not object?’ Spock asked.

‘No, I don’t think he did,’ she laughed softly. ‘Of course everyone was woken up then. She’d found your lifesigns on one of the small continents. I think they called it New Arkansas. We did all the checks to confirm it, then beamed you straight up. We couldn’t believe it.’

‘I myself could hardy believe it,’ Spock admitted.

‘And then when we saw what had happened to you...’ she said, trailing off as if it were unspeakable.

‘One does not expect slavery,’ Spock said simply.

‘No,’ she nodded. ‘No. You’d hope that after so long humans would have learnt...’

‘Humans often resist change and repeat mistakes,’ Spock commented.

He closed his eyes. He felt very sleepy again, and the continuous stroking of his arm was very soothing.

‘I imagine there have been a lot of changes in the months I have been away,’ he said.

‘Oh, not really,’ she said. ‘There’ve been a couple of deaths in security, I’m afraid. Ensign Morrison and Lieutenant Anayev, and we took on five new security personnel. Nurse Jenkins is new. But that’s it, really. Everyone you know is still here. Your quarters are still as they were. They were shut up after a few weeks, but I think the captain’s been going in to check on them every now and then. But you know what it’s like, Mr Spock. Not a lot changes around here. It’s what’s around us that changes.’

‘Yes, that is very true,’ Spock murmured.

‘I should let you sleep,’ she said.

‘No,’ Spock said quickly. He did not want to be left alone. ‘No, it is pleasant to have you here,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about the others who were beamed up.’

‘Well, there isn’t a lot to tell. We’re caring for them as best we can down in the cargo bays. We’re trying to set up separate areas for them, but we don’t have enough free rooms to put them up in quarters. They’re malnourished, ill, injured. We’re doing all we can for them. I think some of them will chose to stay on board and be taken somewhere else where they can start a new life. Others want to be sent back to their families.’

‘Yes, the captain told me that some wish to return,’ Spock said pensively.

‘Most people aren’t used to travel like we are,’ Christine reminded him. ‘They’re used to the same gravity, the same atmosphere, the same colour sky. The idea of going to a whole new planet is incredible to them. The lifestyle down there may not be ideal, but it’s their home.’

‘It is far from ideal,’ Spock said flatly.

‘I know,’ she nodded. ‘Really, I do. But it’s not like that everywhere. And I suppose – I suppose they hope that this time it will be all right. We can’t force them to leave.’

‘No, I am aware of that,’ Spock nodded. Still, it was hard for him to imagine anyone wanting to stay on a planet that practised such horrific abuses of the rights of sentient beings. ‘I was anxious to find out about one person in particular,’ he said. ‘A man named Benjamin.’

‘Oh, Ben!’ she said, smiling. ‘Yes, he’s down there in the cargo bay. He’d been asking about you. He seems nice. He’s relatively healthy and I don’t see why he shouldn’t be able to come up to see you.’

‘If you could arrange that I would be grateful,’ Spock nodded.

‘I will,’ she nodded. ‘I think you could do with getting some more sleep, but I’ll try to arrange for him to visit at a better time.’

‘Thank you,’ Spock nodded. He hesitated, looking at her. It had been a long time since he had seen any woman who was so healthy. The female slaves seemed, on average, to fare worse than the male. It was a pleasure just to see the lustre of her hair and the glow of her skin.

‘I’d better get on,’ she said, suddenly seeming uncomfortable as she became aware of his attention. ‘And you need to sleep,’ she said in a bright, forceful voice, the tone she reserved for recalcitrant patients. ‘No arguments, Mr Spock.’

‘I shall not argue,’ Spock nodded.

When she left him he rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes, resolving to meditate again to calm his emotions. It had seemed to work last time to stave off nightmares. Perhaps it would work again.

  
  


 


	18. Chapter 18

When Benjamin came into the sick bay Spock was awake and sitting up in bed with the computer screen angled towards himself, reading. It had been a long time since he had indulged in the luxury of reading and although he did not often give time to fiction now seemed a very good time to lose himself in another reality.

He looked up as he became aware of the man hovering in the doorway, then flicked the screen off and pushed it away. Christine Chapel was standing beside him, having just escorted him up to the sick bay.

‘Benjamin,’ Spock said, nodding briefly. ‘Thank you, Miss Chapel.’

‘No problem, Mr Spock,’ she replied, then turned herself to sorting out one of the trays of equipment at the side of the room.

A smile lit Benjamin’s face, and he came across the ward with his hand outstretched. Spock’s eyes travelled over him, noting how thin the man still was. In the last few days he had grown used to being around people who were well fed and well looked after, and although he could see in his own hands and wrists and torso that he was thin too, it was a surprise to see it so evident in another man.

‘Spock, it’s very good to see you,’ Ben said, covering the floor quickly, despite a slight limp.

‘You have been receiving treatment,’ Spock said, trying to assess the man’s condition. He had at least had a haircut. His hair was almost shorn to his head, probably to get rid of the matted locks that had been his previous hairstyle.

‘I wasn’t too bad,’ Ben told him, standing rather uneasily by the bed as if he were still not quite able to take a seat without permission. ‘The doctor says he’ll treat the scars in the next few days, and then I’ll be free to go. I’m going home, Spock. I’m going back to my family.’

Spock frowned a little. ‘Then you have elected to stay on Alphonae Prime?’

Ben smiled ruefully. ‘I have children and a wife, Spock. I have family. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I want to be part of their lives again.’

‘And what will prevent you returning to the most appalling slavery?’ Spock asked, trying to keep his voice level.

‘I hope – ’ Ben began, then said, ‘I will do everything I can to stay with them.’

Spock nodded, trying to process and conceal his consternation at that prospect. He looked about the ward, considering that he was really quite well enough to leave his bed for a while and he did not want to interact with Benjamin while he was lying down like and invalid. He pushed back the blanket from his legs and stood unsteadily. There was still tightness and pain in his back. He was weak and his body ached. Ben reached out a hand to him, and Spock shook his head.

‘I am fine,’ he said. He slipped a dressing gown on over his blue sickbay overalls, and pushed his feet into the simple shoes provided for walking about in the ward.

‘Mr Spock – ’ Nurse Chapel said, starting forward.

Spock raised a hand. ‘I am all right,’ he said. ‘I take it I am permitted to leave sick bay for a short time?’

She glanced up at the panel above the bed, and then looked at his notes.

‘For a short time,’ she nodded reluctantly.

Spock nodded in acknowledgement, then walked with Benjamin out of the room.

‘Do you need help, Spock?’ Ben asked, seeing that the Vulcan was somewhat halting in his gait.

‘No. I can manage,’ Spock said firmly. Walking about exposed him to pain that he was largely free of while he was in bed, but he had grown used to suppressing pain on a daily basis.

He stood for a moment in the corridor, looking around. He had not been out of the sick bay since his return to the ship. He was not entirely sure that he wished to see the varied crew of the _Enterprise_ at this time, but he was aware that returning to as normal a life as possible was part of the key to recovery, and there was no logic in hiding away.

‘Where are we going?’ Ben asked.

‘There is a recreation room just down the corridor,’ Spock said decisively. ‘We are going there.’

It was good to be out of the sterile, medicine-scented atmosphere of sickbay, but Spock was very aware of the eyes on him as they walked into the recreation room. He knew that no one but Jim and a select amount of sickbay staff knew exactly what he had suffered on Alphonae Prime, but he felt a prickling across his skin as he walked to a table and sat down. He must look very different, he knew. His face still bore the heavy scar from his fall onto the bucket rim. He had not yet shaved his beard and his hair was still long, although it was clean, and one of the nurses had managed to brush out the tangles. Thankfully his hair was less prone to the kind of tangling that afflicted humans.

‘If you choose a drink and something to eat, the replicator will provide it,’ Spock explained.

Ben’s eyes widened a little. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Anything that is in the replicator’s programming. Have you not made use of the replicators already?’

He shook his head. ‘Not yet. I don’t think they have them down where we are. They’ve been bringing meals on trays.’

‘Undoubtedly from a replicator elsewhere on the ship,’ Spock nodded. ‘What would you like?’

Ben looked nonplussed. The idea of choice was still alien to him.

‘Would you like me to choose something?’ Spock asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Ben nodded.

Spock walked over to the replicator, still very aware of the attention lingering on him from other crew members. Their gazes had become less direct, but the interest was palpable to someone with his telepathic ability.

He perused the discs and slipped one into the replicator. The machine produced two cups of black coffee and two convoluted Danish pastries, which he brought back to the table.

‘You might enjoy this,’ Spock said, pushing a plate towards him. ‘The cinnamon Danish is a particular favourite of the captain’s.’

He watched as Ben ate, eating his own pastry only slowly and for the sake of sociability. What he really wanted was the hot, black coffee. Un-Vulcan as it was he had always had a taste for it. He did not find himself with much appetite at the moment, but the coffee did not seem to take up much space in his shrunken stomach. It was, he had to admit, a comforting reminder of times past, before all this had happened.

‘It is good,’ Ben said after a time.

Spock nodded. His own pastry was barely touched.

‘You’re not eating that?’ Ben asked.

Spock pushed the plate over to the other side of the table. ‘Have it,’ he said simply.

Ben picked it up instantly, then hesitated and said with a tone of embarrassment, ‘I haven’t got used to it yet. To having all I could want to eat.’

‘It is of no matter,’ Spock murmured. ‘I am not hungry.’

His back seemed to prickle again as he sat there. The talk in the room was all quite audible to him, even when the voices were lowered. Most chatter was very deliberately not about him, but he caught the occasional word that referred to his appearance or suppositions about the ordeals he had undergone. He moved his toes uncomfortably in his loose shoes, feeling the pain in the badly healed bones and the odd space where one toe was missing. He pushed his hair back from his face, and suddenly the beard and the long hair that he had grown used to seemed odd and intolerable.

He refocussed on Ben, aware that the man had been speaking.

‘I must apologise,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I am not suited to idle conversation.’

Benjamin smiled. ‘I’ve known that for a long time, Spock. It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to see you were all right.’

‘I am – acceptable,’ Spock said. He could see that Ben would like to know more but he was not comfortable speaking in depth about his condition, especially in these circumstances.

He saw that Benjamin had finished his own drink and both pastries, and he put his half-drunk cup on the tray and stood up.

‘I would prefer to return to the sickbay,’ he said in a low voice as he put the other plates and cup on the tray and picked it up. He took the tray to the clearing slot and then came back to Ben, who followed him out of the room.

‘I know the feeling,’ Benjamin said after a moment, in the empty corridor.

Spock looked sideways at him, an eyebrow raised.

‘That feeling,’ Benjamin repeated. ‘That weird feeling, like someone’s walked over your grave.’

Spock frowned. ‘I do not have a grave as yet.’

Ben laughed. ‘It’s an expression,’ he said. ‘I mean – that feeling like you’re out of place, out of time. A strange feeling.’

‘Dislocation,’ Spock murmured. ‘Disassociation.’

‘I should leave you alone, Spock,’ Ben said as they reached the sickbay door. ‘You look as if you could do with some time alone.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said distractedly. ‘Thank you.’

He walked in through the door barely noticing that Benjamin had left him, and went over to sit down on his bed. He looked around at the other beds in the ward, momentarily wishing that he were in a private room. There was no point in dwelling on that, though. There was not a private room that he could take at the moment. The best he could hope for would be a release to his quarters.

He slipped the shoes and dressing gown off and got back into his bed, but he did not turn the computer screen back on and read his book. He simply sat, somewhere between meditation and thought, his eyes unfocussed.

After a time he realised that he was not alone. He turned his head and focussed, seeing that the doctor was sitting in the chair beside the bed, just watching him.

‘Did I disturb your meditation?’ McCoy asked rather awkwardly.

Spock shook his head. ‘I was not meditating exactly,’ he said.

He was still not exactly sure what had come over him in the rec room, or whether he had reconciled himself to the odd feelings he had experienced. He had simply felt overwhelmed by everything around him, and his quiet solitude in sickbay had helped.

He pushed his hair away from his face again with a degree of impatience. Now that it was clean and brushed it was far more problematic, ironically, than it had been when it had been caught in tangles.

‘Come on, Spock. Why don’t you let me cut your hair?’ McCoy asked him, noticing the irritation in his action. ‘It might help – bring things back to normal.’

Spock touched a hand again to the ragged, long hair at the back of his head. ‘I did not know your skills extended to hairdressing,’ he said doubtfully.

‘Oh, it’s traditional for the ship’s surgeon to be the barber too,’ McCoy said lightly.

‘Ahh,’ Spock replied ponderously. ‘It does not surprise me at all that you are proficient at barbary, Doctor.’

‘Well, if you’re going to be like that about it – ’ McCoy began in a mock-injured tone, but Spock could tell that his humour had pleased him. The doctor had been worried about his abstracted silence.

Spock looked up at him, meeting his eyes briefly. ‘Please. Cut my hair, Doctor. I trust you will do it well.’

‘Well then, let me get some things and I’ll get set up in the treatment room,’ the doctor said, rubbing his hands together as if he were looking forward to what he was about to do. ‘I’ll give you a proper barber experience, Spock. You’ll feel a lot better when I’m done.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ Spock said, trying to decide if he would feel better because of the doctor’s actions, or because he had stopped.

Once McCoy had gathered together what he needed Spock transferred to a chair in the treatment room, and tried to heed the doctor’s advice to just sit back and relax. It was an odd experience to have his face shaved by another, but the doctor was right. Once the beard was gone he did feel better, somehow lighter and cleaner and more like himself.

‘There you go,’ the doctor said with a grin. ‘That’s half of the old Spock back again. Now I’ll see to your haircut. The usual, yes?’

Spock frowned a little. ‘You are aware of how I prefer my hair?’ he asked.

‘Of course I am, Spock,’ McCoy told him lightly, fixing a towel about his shoulders and beginning to busy himself with scissors. ‘I’ll cut the worst off, then I’ll use the razor,’ he said. The scissors snipped, and Spock suppressed a jump at the sudden noise so close to his ear. He had grown used to wariness. ‘Just sit back and let me do my job,’ McCoy murmured, intent on what he was doing.

Spock closed his eyes, trying to take the doctor’s advice and simply retreat into a place where he could think in silence. He did not have complete confidence in the doctor’s abilities, but it was likely this was the best he would get at the moment. He tried again to analyse his odd feelings in the recreation room but it felt like probing at a raw wound, and in the end he desisted and simply sat in idleness while McCoy worked.

‘There you go. All done,’ McCoy said finally.

Spock’s eyes snapped open. The floor around him was littered with dark hair and hair itched at the back of his neck.

‘Take a look – tell me what you think,’ McCoy said, handing him a mirror.

Spock hesitated. He had avoided mirrors so far, not wanting to see so graphically the evidence of what had been done to him.

‘Spock?’ the doctor prompted him.

Spock took the small mirror and held it up in front of his face. For an instant, as he met the brown eyes, he saw a stranger – and then he realised he was seeing what he had become in the months away. There was a hollowness to his cheeks and lines on his face that had not been there before, and his eyes seemed to have a look of tiredness and withdrawal. For a moment he felt as if he were looking at a beaten animal.

‘Did I do all right?’ McCoy asked him.

‘Oh – yes, doctor,’ Spock replied, suddenly remembering why he was holding the mirror. ‘Yes, it is quite adequate.’

His eyes fell on the tight green scar that cut a messy curve across his forehead and the orbit of his left eye. He lifted a hand to touch it, reconciling what he had only felt before with what he could see in the mirror. He hadn’t realised how obvious the scar was.

‘I can get rid of that for you, Spock,’ McCoy said softly. ‘A couple of treatments, and all that scarring will be gone. I – assume you want that?’

‘Yes,’ Spock nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I would like that.’

‘Would you like me to start now? I’ve got time. I can do the preliminary treatment and the sooner we start the sooner it’ll be gone.’

‘Yes,’ he said, tracing his finger over the scar again. It felt rough and ugly. He could feel it, tight and binding, every time he moved his facial muscles, and it would be a relief to be rid of it.

  
  


 


	19. Chapter 19

Kirk did an obvious double-take when he walked into the sickbay later that day. Spock was sitting on the edge of the bed rather than lying in it, just pulling his boots on, fully uniformed and with his hair as it used to be, smooth and well cut.

‘Spock, I almost didn’t recognise you!’ the captain said with a broad grin.

The Vulcan looked up, touching a hand to the scar about his eye.

‘There is still this,’ he said in a level voice.  He knew that that was not all. There was his thinness, and that look in his eyes that he had seen in the mirror. He was not sure how to explain that look. Eyes did not change, and yet there it was, the look of a beaten dog.

‘It looks a bit – angry,’ Kirk hazarded.

‘The doctor has begun treatment to heal the scar,’ Spock explained. ‘He told me that the skin may be rather sensitive for a few hours afterwards. It will take approximately five treatments for it to fade completely.’

‘And the rest of them?’ Kirk asked in concern.

‘A similar time frame,’ Spock said. ‘Although the treatment for all of the scars will take considerably longer since the doctor cannot work on them all at once.’

He looked down at his right hand, where his sleeve did not quite cover the puckered and half-healed wounds left by the manacle that had sat on his wrist for eight months.  The hair on his arm had been worn away by the metal.  There was another scar across the back of his hand, and although he had attempted to file his fingernails, they were still rough and split and engrained with dirt in some places. He knew that time would help with all of these things. He knew that time would help with the scarring inside his mind too, but he could not quite visualise a time when those scars would be entirely gone.

‘Bones let you out of sickbay then?’ Kirk asked.

Spock shook his head. ‘Not permanently,’ he said. ‘The good doctor suggested that I might like to leave for a few hours. He is keen for a return to normality.’

‘Do you have any plans?’ Jim said, glancing around at the door.

‘I intended to visit my quarters,’ Spock said.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Perhaps, Captain, I could join _you_ on your scheduled duties?’ Spock asked. ‘I wished to go to my quarters merely because I have little else to do.’

‘Well, all right,’ Jim nodded with a smile. ‘I need to go down to Engineering at some point today to speak to Scotty. I may as well do it now.’

Spock nodded and fell in beside his captain as he had done so often before. After a moment Jim became aware that Spock was not quite keeping pace, though, and slowed a little.

‘Still not well?’ he asked the Vulcan.

‘I am still suffering the effects of viral infection, and there is still pain in various places,’ Spock admitted. He looked sideways at his captain. ‘Jim, may I ask how things are proceeding in relation to the situation on Alphonae Prime?’

‘Slowly,’ Kirk told him reluctantly. ‘There’s a chance that we might be able to do something about the slavery with the introduction of sanctions. They don’t rely on a lot from off-world, but they do trade in dilithium from Federation sources in order to keep their small space fleet going. I don’t think they’d like to be entirely cut off from other humans in the galaxy, which is what they’re looking at if they don’t change their ways.’

‘I assume that is a task for the bureaucrats,’ Spock said wryly.

‘Yes, it’s more suited to talking than direct action.’

Spock knew that the captain would probably be pleased if he were simply given permission to aim the ship’s phasers at the planet’s main cities and threaten to fire unless there was an immediate ban on human trafficking. Diplomats had always annoyed him with their adherence to formality and their love of extended time frames.

‘It will take time,’ Spock said. ‘But it is possible that sanctions would work.’

As they turned the corner into the corridor that ran past the transporter room Spock became aware of sounds like shouting not far away, as if a door had opened to suddenly let the  noise through. Jim stopped in his tracks, stiffening and glancing at Spock. He started to say, ‘You know, why don’t we go up to the – ’

Spock peered ahead along the corridor, but he could not see past the curve of the walls.

‘What is it, Jim?’ he asked. It was obvious that someone had been beamed up who did not want to be beamed up, and the highest probability was that that person was from Alphonae Prime. It was also obvious that the captain wanted to keep him away from whatever was happening.

‘It’s nothing, Spock,’ Kirk said, putting a hand on his arm to turn him away.

Spock stood very still, listening. He recognised at least one of those voices, which was edging on high-pitched, and swearing vehemently.

‘Spock,’ Kirk said warningly, but the party crested the curve in the corridor and Spock saw them, a huddle of security guards in brilliant red shirts corralling three men. They were Master Heaton, Newman, and Master Robert. Newman’s boots were treading mud onto the floor, as if he had been taken straight from the fields, but Master Heaton and Master Robert were both well dressed and looked furious.

Spock straightened his spine, clasping his hands behind his back and then standing very still as the party approached. It was Master Robert who was swearing, filling the air with the most vile epithets and jerking himself away from the hands of the security guards.

Spock stared at the teenager as he struggled against the guards, struck with the sudden realisation that the boy was terrified. He was little more than a boy, and he was terrified. Spock was certain that he had not understood that what he had done was any more wrong than beating a dog in secret, or stealing from the kitchen, or sneaking out at night against his parents’ wishes. He suddenly felt able to stand still and to look at him in the full knowledge that if Master Robert met his eyes he would still have no power over him.

The boy saw him at that moment, and froze, staring at Spock as if trying to work out if this was really the unkempt and beaten slave that he had subjected to such abuse on the farm. There was a momentary jolt of recognition, and then his eyes travelled down Spock’s body, lingering deliberately on his groin, before moving back up again. There was a look of disdain on his face now, masking over the fear. He was bitterly angry at being caught in his wrongdoing, at being punished for doing such a thing to a mere slave.

The guards hustled him on again, and Spock stepped back to let them pass. Behind him Heaton and Newman were surly and quiet, with anger in their eyes. But as Master Robert drew level with him the boy drew back his head a little, and then spat with full force into Spock’s face. Instinct and disgust pushed aside logic. Spock reached out like a striking snake and pressured his fingers hard on the junction of the boy’s neck and shoulder. Master Robert dropped to the floor, and not one of the guards made a movement to catch him as he slammed against the hard deck.

Spock wiped the spittle off his face with the palm of his hand. For a moment he was aware of no one but himself and the unconscious form of Master Robert on the floor. There was a powerful urge in the muscle of his right thigh to lift his leg and kick him hard. He resisted, and after a moment he became aware that people were moving again, that Master Robert was being picked up and slung over a the burly guard’s shoulder, and that the others were being hustled on down the corridor.

‘Spock,’ Kirk said.

His voice seemed to come from very far away.

‘Spock. _Spock._ ’

He looked down and saw that his hands were shaking.

‘Spock,’ Kirk said again.

He took the Vulcan firmly by the arm and made him walk on down the corridor until they reached a small briefing room. He took him straight through into the single toilet just off the room and reached past to turn the tap on.

‘Wash your hands, Spock,’ he prompted him gently.

Spock stared at the running water for a moment before taking some soap and cleaning his hand and then his face. He took the towel that Kirk handed him and dried himself, then walked back out into the briefing room and took a seat, moving stiffly, as if his muscles were still asleep.

‘Are you all right, Spock?’ Kirk asked in deep concern.

Spock nodded. ‘Yes, Jim,’ he said.

‘I don’t blame you for putting him down like that. I would have punched him.’

‘I – almost kicked him,’ Spock said slowly, trying to process the reality of that, that such anger had blazed inside him that he had almost lifted his boot and driven it into the boy’s ribs. He would have broken his ribs, probably punctured his lung, or caused other internal injuries. He could easily have killed him. ‘Once he was unconscious, I almost kicked him.’

‘Maybe that would have been a good idea,’ Kirk said grimly.

‘Not for me,’ Spock said slowly. ‘Not – for a Vulcan.’

Kirk patted his arm gently. ‘I’m sorry, Spock. I sent the team down to fetch those three but I didn’t expect them to be beaming up so soon. I wouldn’t have walked that way if I’d thought for an instant that you’d come face to face with those bastards.’

‘It is all right, Jim,’ Spock said quietly.

He sat still in the chair. He could feel the place on his face where Master Robert’s spittle had hit him. He could feel it on his palm still. His fingers remembered the sensation of the boy’s flesh and bone where he had pressed down with the nerve pinch. His entire body wanted to shudder with the memory of that one individual’s skin in contact with his own. He held himself rigid, trying to control the emotions that surged along with the remembered physical sensations in his body.

‘You – gained permission to take them into custody,’ he said, trying to regain a sense of normalcy.

‘Yes, just this morning,’ Kirk nodded. ‘The ones you’ve specifically accused of offences. I’ve no doubt that the whole lot of them need hauling up here, but – ’

‘They were the worst offenders,’ Spock nodded. ‘I understand it would be difficult...’

‘Spock, I don’t need to go down and talk to Scotty now. I hadn’t scheduled any time with him. How about we go back to my quarters and sit down with something to drink?’

‘Yes,’ Spock said distractedly. ‘Yes, I believe that would be a good idea.’

It was only a short walk and turbolift ride to Kirk’s quarters. Spock entered with some degree of intrigue, wondering if the captain’s quarters would have changed at all in the time he had been gone. He remembered the last time he had been in there, the night before he had departed for his mission of detecting and logging potential supernovae. Jim had invited him in and sat down to go through the final details of the mission and the flight plan, and then simply to sit and talk until evening grew into night. But his room did not look as if it had changed at all in all that intervening time.

‘Was my data recovered?’ Spock asked suddenly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Kirk asked.

‘The data that I logged before the shuttle crash, regarding potential supernovae,’ Spock explained.

‘Oh. I’m not sure, Spock,’ he admitted. ‘When we lost you, after a time someone else was sent out to do it. I think it was the science officer for the Lexington. I didn’t pay it much attention.’ He went to a closet in the corner of the room and slid the door back into the wall. ‘Drink?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Spock said, taking note that it was a decanter of Scotch whisky that the captain was lifting towards him. He did not often partake, seeing no logic in deliberately becoming intoxicated, but there was something about the numb stiffness all through him that he thought would be helped by the warmth of Earth alcohol. His hands still shook if he did not take care to steady them.

Kirk said nothing about the unusual decision on Spock’s part, but simply poured him a glass and passed it over, saying, ‘Sit down, Spock. No, take the good chair.’

Spock had been about to take the rather more functional desk chair, but he deferred to the captain and took the armchair instead, which had been created, it seemed, with comfort and support in mind. He took a sip of the alcohol and the scent filled his nasal passages and burnt down his throat.

‘They won’t be on the ship for long,’ Kirk said after a long silence. ‘I don’t want to have them on here with you. We’ll take them to the nearest Starbase where a court will be convened and they’ll be tried for abduction, illegal imprisonment, and – well – for everything – ’

‘For rape,’ Spock said, almost surprising himself with his ability to say that word. ‘Robert Heaton will be tried for that.’

‘Yes, Spock,’ Kirk said soberly, seeming not to know where to look.

Spock nodded. The word had felt odd in his mouth. He took another swallow of the whisky and let the fumes rise through his sinuses again. He had hoped to feel empowered by allowing himself to say that word in front of his captain, but instead he just felt strange. Disassociated. Dislocated. He had said those words to Benjamin. He did not feel as if he were in the right place or even the right skin.

‘I’m sorry, Spock,’ Jim said suddenly, meeting his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I mean, if it’ll help you to talk about this then I’m here to talk about it, but I just – I don’t know...’

‘I do not know what to say,’ Spock admitted. ‘I – don’t believe I want to say anything at all. It is – not an experience that I wish to bring to mind unless it is very necessary.’

‘All right, Spock,’ Kirk nodded, cradling his hands around his own glass. He stood up and fetched the decanter and set it down on the desk. ‘We can talk about the ship, about science, about poetry, about anything we like. But nothing below the orbit of the _Enterprise_. For the next few hours, that place and its people don’t even exist.’

  
  


 


	20. Chapter 20

Spock woke with a jolt. The room was dim around him and he could feel his heart thumping in his side. The sense of claustrophobia was wordless and formless. It had no connection to any one thought. But it was there, the feeling that his ribs were constricting his lungs and he could barely breathe. It was a fear of the kind that had hardly come to him on the planet below, when he was actually in danger.

He sat up straight in bed, trying to control the racing of his heart and the urge to breathe sharp and shallow. What was it that had woken him? He tried to remember a dream but could only remember chaotic shreds of panicked thought.

 _I am safe now_ , he told himself.

There was a flash of memory of cold concrete beneath his near-naked body, barely insulated by filthy straw. The grate of chains on the ground that seemed so real in his ears that it set his teeth on edge. The ache of tiredness through every bone, the pain in his back and upper arms from work and from beatings.

 _A beaten dog_ , he remembered. He had looked like a beaten dog. The dogs on the farm had been treated better than the human captives.

 _I am safe_ , he told himself again, looking about at the ward around him. The light was dim but it was clear that he was on the ship, in warm, clean, protective surroundings. His clothing was dry and soft and intact. All of this was real, no matter how sharp the memories.

He slipped his legs out of bed. There was a glass on the ledge, but it was empty, and he took it into the bathroom to fill it. As he returned to his bed he noticed that the water was slopping against the sides. His hands were still shaking, or shaking again.

‘Mr Spock?’

His head jerked at the noise. It was Nurse Chapel, coming out of the office with a book in her hand. She looked tired, and he glanced at the chronometer to see that it was almost 3am. She must be on night duty.

‘I needed to refill my glass,’ he explained unnecessarily. ‘I was thirsty.’

She glanced up at the bio-readings and he knew that she read more into his waking than that.

She came and took a seat by his bed, smiling gently.

‘You know, that call button’s there for a reason,’ she said.

‘Not to ask for a glass of water when I am quite capable of fetching my own.’

‘No,’ she nodded, ‘but for other reasons, like waking up with an elevated heart rate and shortness of breath and a fair amount of Vulcan adrenaline in your body.’

‘Sometimes your perspicacity is frustrating,’ Spock replied, setting the glass down so that the water no longer rippled with the shaking of his hands.

‘Reading a medical board is hardly perspicacious. I’m guessing you mean you don't want to talk about it?’

‘I mean I – ’ He faltered. He no more knew if he wanted to talk about it than he had known the precise problem that had woken him in what he could only describe as a state of panic.

‘You don't have to talk about it,’ she assured him. ‘But it might help.’

‘I do not know why I woke,’ he admitted. ‘I felt – Perhaps it was a dream.’

‘Or a nightmare?’ she suggested.

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes, you would call it a nightmare. But I do not remember. I do not remember the dream.’

‘You remember the feelings.’

‘Yes,’ he murmured. He picked up the glass and took a mouthful of water, then returned it to the ledge by the bed. ‘I do not wish to discuss the feelings.’

‘All right,’ the nurse nodded.

She turned her chair a little so that she was not quite facing Spock, and flicked through the pages of her book until she found her place. Then she started reading.

Spock watched her for a moment, then rested his head back on his pillow. She had respected his wish to not talk about it, but it was evident that she was not leaving his side right now. He lay and let his eyes focus on the ceiling, concentrating on regulating his breathing and settling the odd panicked feelings that kept rising inside him. He knew this was related to his experience on the planet’s surface, and to the appearance of his three main tormentors on the ship today. He knew that the most claustrophobic and crushing of his feelings were focussed on Master Robert and those things that he had done.

He bit his lip into his mouth as a wave of memory washed over him. It was crushing him, taking his breath. The soft bed and blankets faded away and all he could feel was the pressure of those fingers against the bone of his hips, his breath, the weight of his body, the –

No!

He sat up straight again, gasping, struggling to push away those feelings that had descended on him as if he had travelled back through time.

‘Mr Spock,’ the nurse said firmly.

He looked at her, momentarily confused. She had put her book down and was reaching out to him. He let her touch his arm. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of that touch, on the mental emanations that were female, caring, concerned.

‘It’s all right, Mr Spock,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not unusual to suffer flashbacks or any number of psychological reactions.’

He drew in breath, struggling to grasp the mundanity of his situation, here in a bed on the ship, in perfect safety.

‘If you were human I’d consider a sedative to help you sleep,’ she said, ‘but I’d be reluctant to recommend it for a Vulcan. I’m sure you’d rather process the feelings than simply sleep through them.’

‘Yes,’ he said in an abstracted tone. ‘Yes, I believe it would be better to process them.’

‘Would you like me to bring a light so that you can meditate more easily?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Spock nodded. ‘Yes, that would be very useful. Thank you, Miss Chapel.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ she said.

She walked softly out of the room and returned some minutes later with what appeared to be a lantern with a real candle inside. He raised his eyebrow in surprise.

‘Just as you have permission to use your meditation statue in your quarters, we’re allowed to seek permission to have a candle for various reasons. It’s a spill-proof, smash-proof container and the smoke is contained, so it’s no fire risk and won’t set off the detectors,’ she explained.

She wheeled a small table across the ward and pushed it over Spock’s bed, then set the lantern down in the centre. A small switch caused the candle to light with a steady yellow flame.

‘I’ll leave you to it, but I’ll be in the office,’ she promised him. ‘If I come back and you’re asleep I’ll extinguish the candle.’

‘Thank you, Miss Chapel,’ Spock nodded.

He waited for her to leave the room then settled himself in a sitting position, fingers steepled and eyes focussed on the movement of the flame beyond his fingertips. He allowed his surroundings to fade as he brought his recent panicked feelings back to mind. He knew that this was likely to be a painful experience. He must force himself to think through all that had happened to him and process his feelings, and that felt like the last thing he wanted to do. But it was necessary. It was very necessary.

******

The morning came with a great feeling of calm. Spock felt as if he were waking after sleeping through a fever, when in actuality he was waking from sleep following one of the most intense periods of meditation that he had ever forced himself to undergo. He was aware that it wouldn’t be as easy as one simple session, but he felt much more normal, and much more free.

Not long after waking McCoy came to him to treat the scar on his face again, and to begin on some of the other scars. When he looked in the mirror afterwards the difference to his face was appreciable. He ran his fingers over a scar that was far smoother and closer in colour to the surrounding skin than it had been when he had arrived back on the ship.

A little later in the day Kirk came into the sickbay looking rather pensive.

‘Spock, to be able to hold those men on the ship I need you to make a formal identification,’ he said. ‘I can arrange it so that they won’t be able to see you, but I do need you to confirm that we’ve got the right people.’

‘Of course, Captain,’ Spock said quickly.

‘I mean, if we need to we could fill out the forms here,’ Kirk said awkwardly. ‘You saw them yesterday, I know, and I could get Bones to put his name down to confirm your word. But you know what Fleet’s like. They want everything stamped and dotted and crossed.’

‘It is fine, Jim,’ Spock assured him. ‘I would rather go and make the identification in person than make an untruthful declaration here and risk having that untruth exposed.’

‘All right,’ Jim nodded, still looking reluctant. ‘How are you doing, Spock?’ he asked, taking a step back and looking at him critically. ‘You look – I don’t know – more yourself.’

‘I do feel rather more myself,’ Spock admitted.

He was already dressed in his uniform, and was hoping that McCoy might deign to release him from the sickbay today. He was certain that he was neither so ill nor so fragile that he needed to be permanently under the eye of sickbay staff. He thought it might depend on what Nurse Chapel told the doctor of the incident last night, and wondered if he might be able to persuade her to downplay his reaction. He hoped that he had his panicked reactions under control, but he was concerned that McCoy would not want to release him if he was still suffering such reactions.

Physically, he was certain that he was better. Today when he followed his captain out of the room he found it must easier to keep to his pace as he walked through the corridors.

‘We’ve set the forcefield to one-way visuals,’ Kirk said in a low voice as they walked into the brig. ‘Standard procedure in these cases, Spock,’ he assured him as Spock glanced at him quickly. ‘You’ll be able to see them but they can’t see out. The soundproofing’s on, too.’

Spock nodded briefly. Now he was actually in the brig he felt less certain of his emotional reaction, but he made no outward sign of his uncertainty. Two of the cells had opaque screens, while the rest were empty, their forcefields inactive. He walked with Kirk, and a taciturn security guard who was acting as witness, to the cell at the end of the row. As he came level with the doorway to look directly at the field the opacity shifted so that he could see through. Inside Master Heaton and Newman were sitting on the bench-like beds, looking pensive and bored.

Spock nodded, regarding them with what he hoped looked like impassivity.

‘The man on the left is Heaton, my self-styled ‘owner,’’ he said uncomfortably. ‘The man on the right is Newman. They were both complicit in my unlawful imprisonment. Both beat me and otherwise abused me.’

‘All right, Spock,’ Kirk nodded, his voice quiet. ‘That’s enough for the identification. Now the other.’

He moved with Spock up to the second doorway, and Spock looked through, still trying to keep his face impassive. He saw Master Robert in there, lying on his back on the narrow bed. He looked sulky, but Spock also noticed that his face was severely bruised. As he watched, the boy shifted position and winced, pressing his hand to his ribs.

‘Lieutenant Maythorpe, what’s happened to this prisoner?’ Kirk asked, obviously having noticed the same injuries as Spock had.

The security guard shifted uncomfortably.

‘Well, sir, he – ’ he began.

‘Go on,’ Kirk said very carefully. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Well, he kicked off when he came round from the nerve pinch, sir,’ Maythorpe explained. ‘Two of my men were in the cell with him at the time, and he – became quite abusive, sir. Really, he was a mouthy little co- Ahem.’ Maythorpe cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘He said some very unpleasant things about – Well, he insulted Commander Spock, sir,’ he finished in a rather abashed tone, seeming unable to look directly either at Spock or at the captain.

‘And rather than stun him as per regulations...?’ Kirk asked.

‘Ensign Singh thought he was at too close quarters to stun, sir,’ Maythorpe said. ‘So he had to resort to – ah – to his physical training, sir.’

‘And his physical training included punching him in the face and body?’ Kirk asked sternly.

‘Well, he might have fallen awkwardly when Singh tried to subdue him, sir,’ Maythorpe said, looking at his feet.

‘He might have fallen awkwardly,’ Kirk echoed. ‘Has he seen the doctor?’

‘Not yet, sir. It was quite late yesterday that this happened, and we didn’t want to disturb – ’

‘Of course not,’ Kirk said in a very understanding tone. ‘He – looks like he’s in a bit of pain, doesn’t he?’

‘Maybe a bit, sir,’ Maythorpe nodded.

‘Well – we’ll be at the Starbase in fourty-eight hours, Maythorpe,’ Kirk nodded. ‘Make sure he sees McCoy before he disembarks so the doctor can treat those bruises. Just remember that all of the medical staff are very busy with the refugees in the cargo hold right now, so – well, don’t be surprised if he has to wait a little for attention.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Maythorpe said brightly, a slow smile spreading over his face.

‘And try not to let him fall awkwardly again,’ Kirk told him. ‘At least, not so awkwardly that we have to explain to the magistrate on the starbase.’

Spock looked at Kirk rather quizzically. It was obvious that Master Robert had been the subject of physical abuse. He was not sure how he should react in light of that. The captain was apparently going to take no further action, and no matter how much logic and history of pacifism ran through his mind he could not say that he was sorry to see Master Robert like that, beaten and subdued and in pain. Revenge was unVulcan. It was unpleasant. But it was, in many ways, quite satisfying.

He wondered just what the boy had said to provoke that reaction in Ensign Singh, who Spock had always known to be a calm and reasonable man.

‘All right, Spock,’ Kirk said. ‘Can you confirm the identity of that one too?’

Spock cleared his throat, looking vaguely at the back of the cell now rather than at the man within. ‘Yes, Captain. That is Robert Heaton,’ he nodded, ‘who – ’

‘I don’t think we need to reiterate his offences,’ Kirk cut over him quietly. ‘Thank you, Mr Spock. Thank you, Lieutenant Maythorpe. I just need you to sign the identification report then you can get back to your duties.’

‘Aye, sir,’ Maythorpe said smartly.

Kirk and Maythorpe turned to go back to the desk at the entrance to the brig. Spock stayed still, however, gazing through the door of the cell at the boy within. He was totally unconscious that he was being watched. He was wearing a loose red prisoner’s overall and red slip-on shoes. The bruises on his face were florid and spreading, and he looked most uncomfortable as he tried to pillow his head on his hand, and then winced and gave up. Spock stared at him, remembering himself with chains fastening his wrists and ankles, and Master Robert strutting and cocky, well-dressed and well fed and completely in control of his small world. If Master Robert had lashed out with a switch Spock had been required to stand still and accept the stinging cut without a word. If Master Robert had told him to lie face down in the mud or to clear away dog mess with his bare hands or to stay passive and silent while he sated his desire, Spock had been required to obey without argument. The anger that suddenly surged through him was vast and violent. Suddenly he could barely see for the white-hot haze in front of his eyes. If he had been in the cell with Master Robert he would have done far more than simply bruise his perfect face.

He stiffened himself and stepped back slowly, his hands clenched at his sides, moving until the screen was opaque once more and he could not see his tormentor. There was no use in this. There was no use in remembering and dwelling and craving revenge. He could only move on by letting go of the memory and the emotion. It was all that he could do.

‘Spock, are you all right?’ Kirk asked in a low voice, back at his side again.

‘Yes,’ Spock murmured. ‘Yes, Captain, I am quite all right.’

‘They’ll be off the ship soon,’ Kirk reminded him. ‘They’ll be on trial, and then they’ll be in prison for a very long time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Spock nodded. He still felt distant and detached from the reality around him.

‘I’m going to try to arrange for you to testify remotely,’ Kirk continued. ‘That way you can stay on the ship and you won’t have to appear before them in the court.’

‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Spock agreed. He wanted to be able to stand in front of these men. He had hoped that this time would be easier. But it was undeniable that facing them stirred so many emotions and memories that he risked losing himself and everything that he had learnt about being a Vulcan. Ensign Singh had the privilege of being human, of being of a lower rank, and being able to act in a very human way. He had no such privilege. To indulge in human revenge would be to lose himself, and he had not fought for survival for eight months in order to lose himself now.

  



	21. Chapter 21

It was a little under three weeks later that the trial was convened on Starbase 73. When Spock stood in his quarters and looked in the mirror he saw a different person to the man he had seen in McCoy’s sick bay, malnourished and beaten and scarred. He was not entirely sure that he was a different person underneath, but the vicious scar on his face was almost completely gone, and he found himself able to sleep through the night without those odd crushing feelings of panic waking him. He was still thin, but not the hollow-cheeked person that he had been.

He was not sure how he would manage to get through this trial, though. Although he was quite confident of his own innocence and the men’s guilt, the idea of having his treatment detailed and itemised and shared between numerous Federation officials was abhorrent to him. Although his name would be kept out of the press it would not be long before people put two and two together, due to the rarity of Vulcans serving in Starfleet.

Spock sat behind the desk in his room trying to process all that he was about to go through. He was wearing his dress uniform, waiting for the moment when he would be called to attend the briefing room not far away to give his testimony via subspace. On the desk in front of him there was a padd and stylus, and a list of the possible questions that he may be asked. The Federation team had been very sensitive and careful with him, trying their best to prepare him for the trial. The trouble was that he had no desire to talk about this with anyone, even to prepare. Just looking at the possible questions was vastly disconcerting, and he irrationally wished that someone, _anyone_ , could answer the questions in his stead.

But there was no one. There were other citizens of Alphonae Prime still on the ship, waiting for the opportunity to disembark at a suitable planet that accepted human immigrants, but they would not be able to feature in the trial except as witnesses. They were not Federation citizens and could only seek justice on their home planet. As such, he would be the only victim in the case. He had no fear of facing either Newman or Master Heaton, but the thought of everything that Master Robert had done being reeled out in front of a jury made nausea rise in his stomach, no matter how hard he tried to control.

There was a buzz at his door, and he looked up sharply.

‘Come,’ he said.

Kirk entered the room with a sympathetic smile.

‘How are you doing, Spock?’ he asked.

The closer the time had grown to the trial the more careful and softly spoken Jim seemed to have become with him. Spock was gaining the impression that Jim thought him a fragile eggshell in danger of being cracked.

‘I am all right, Jim,’ he said, but he did not look directly at him as he said that.

‘Yeah, and I’m a monkey’s uncle,’ the captain said in an undertone.

‘Humans are apes, a branch of tailless anthropoid catarrhine primates,’ Spock said pedantically. ‘While monkeys are also primates, they are members of the Haplorrhini suborder. Humans cannot crossbreed with monkeys. Therefore your brother’s children are certainly also apes, not monkeys.’

‘Precisely, Spock,’ Kirk said in a satisfied tone. ‘I am no more a monkey’s uncle than you are all right.’

Spock raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you been taking lessons from the good doctor, Jim?’

‘I don’t need to,’ Jim said firmly. ‘I’m quite capable of seeing through you – and winning an argument with you – without help.’

‘As you wish,’ Spock murmured, but he kept the eyebrow raised.

‘Do you want to talk, Spock?’ Jim asked directly.

‘Thank you, Jim, but no, I don’t believe I do,’ Spock replied. He had talked very little about his experiences and his emotional reactions to them, preferring to deal with it internally via meditation and the stock of mental techniques that he had built up since he was a young child.

He had never imagined, as a young child, having to use those resources to deal with something like this. Very few children, especially children from privileged backgrounds, ever had to imagine the stark, appalling consequences of slavery or rape.

‘Do you want me to be in the room when you’re called, Spock?’ Kirk asked him. ‘You can have me or McCoy present – or both of us, of course. You don’t need to be on your own.’

‘I would rather be on my own,’ Spock said flatly. Talking about what had happened in front of McCoy had been difficult enough. He did not want to speak about it in front of him again, or speak of it in front of Jim. He did not want to have that strange barrier between them, of Jim knowing precisely what had happened to him.

‘Are you sure, Spock?’

The stylus in his hand suddenly broke in two. Spock stared at it. He had been unaware that he had been putting any pressure on the slim piece of plastic, but there it was in two pieces in his hand, and there was a green mark on his palm where it had scraped against his skin.

‘Yes, Jim, I am sure,’ he said, very carefully putting the pieces of the stylus down on the desk. Kirk looked at them without comment, but his silence held realms of meaning.

As the stylus touched the desk with a soft clicking sound the intercom whistled, and Uhura’s soft voice said, ‘Commander Spock, you are called to Briefing Room Seven.’

Spock swallowed, his eyes on the broken stylus. He did not want to look up and meet Jim’s eyes. He reached out to the intercom, pressed the audio-only button, and said, ‘Acknowledged, Lieutenant.’

He stood very stiffly, straightening his dress uniform tunic as he did. He was gratified to see that his hands were not shaking, at least. He had suppressed that reaction in the last few weeks, thankfully.

‘Do you mind if I walk down there with you?’ Jim asked.

Spock hesitated, then nodded briefly. ‘Very well,’ he said.

He was glad, though, when Jim left him at the door. Neither had known what to say on the way to the briefing room, and when he stepped through the door and it hissed closed he stopped for a moment, taking in a deep breath and relishing this one moment of being utterly alone. Then he composed his face, took his place in front of the monitor, and switched it on.

He could not see the accused. He was thankful of that. The only face on the screen was that of a pleasant looking human woman wearing a leaf-green suit that was rather featureless, as was the current fashion for business wear. Her hair was very carefully coiffed on top of her head.

‘Commander Spock,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Spock nodded.

‘I am Alyson Hargreave,’ she said. ‘I will be acting as liaison between yourself and the court. Be assured that your responses to questions will be seen by the judge, the jury, the lawyers for prosecution and defence, and myself, but no one else. Are you comfortable with that arrangement?’

Spock nodded again. To say he was comfortable would be a lie, but this was the best that could be arranged.

‘That’s good, Commander,’ she said in a sympathetic tone. ‘Now, some of these questions will seem very invasive. I apologise for that, but you understand – ’

‘I do understand the need,’ Spock cut over her. These preliminaries were unbearable. He would rather get straight to the questioning.

‘Good. Now, I will repeat the lawyers’ questions to you, but they will hear your responses directly. Are you ready to begin?’

He was anything but ready to begin. His mouth felt dry and for a moment he wanted to tell the woman that he could not testify, that it would be better to release the accused and let them go back to their planet. But he nodded again, and said, ‘Yes, I am ready to begin.’

******

He became aware of voices very close to him. He had been sitting for a long time in the chair in the briefing room, so still that his spine had seemed to become part of the curved plastic behind him, his arms had become the chair’s arms, his legs its legs. He did not know how to process his feelings. He had been doing so well, he had thought, through this last week. He had managed three full days without any flashbacks or momentary bursts of panic. He had not experienced the asphyxiating claustrophobia. Each breath had been his own, each thought considered and deliberate.

But this. This had unleashed a river. He felt like an immovable cave with a torrent rushing through him. He did not believe that he could move from his chair. His arms were part of the arms, his legs its legs. He sat very still, only breathing in air because his lungs insisted on movement. His body was hollowed out and his thoughts cascaded through his mind.

He was so, so unclean. He felt as if he had stepped back to that moment when the transporter had caught hold of him and materialised him gently back on the ship. He felt small, huddled, unsafe.

And then he heard the voices near him. McCoy saying, ‘Spock? Spock, come on now. It’s time to get back to your quarters.’

Then Jim saying, ‘Bones, are you sure he’s all right? The comm’s been off for an hour, it says. Has he been sitting like this all that time?’

‘Come on, Spock,’ McCoy said again.

He made what felt like a great physical effort. He felt as if he were climbing from the depths of a dark hole, or waking from a very long sleep. He turned his neck stiffly to look obliquely at the doctor, who was holding his arm. He stood, and life seemed to inch back into his limbs.

‘He’ll be all right, Jim,’ McCoy said with a hint of impatience. Spock hadn’t heard what Kirk had said to make him respond in that way. He moved as the doctor nudged him forwards, and walked with him through the brightness of the corridor back to the warm, dim safety of his quarters. When they entered the room he sat heavily in his carved wooden chair behind the desk. His dress uniform felt very stiff and restrictive, and he had to fight the urge to rip open the collar.

‘Let me help, Spock,’ McCoy said, perceptively reaching out to undo the stiff collar and help him open the tunic to show his black undershirt beneath. Spock leant his head back, and then realised with a jerk that there was nothing to lean against.

‘I am tired,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m glad you can talk,’ McCoy said with gentle humour.

Spock turned his head a little, becoming aware that Jim had exited the quarters through their shared bathroom. After a moment he returned, carrying three glasses and a bottle.

‘I thought the Scotch settled with you well the other day, Spock,’ he said with a smile, putting the glasses down on the desk with a chink.

He let his eyes fall on the glasses. Three glasses. He could not bear the idea of sitting here and socialising at this time. The thought of the alcohol in his mouth was a good thought, but Jim would expect him to talk.

‘Please. I wish to be alone,’ he made his mouth say.

The silence felt thick and full. He could sense the unspoken communication between McCoy and Jim. And then Jim said, ‘I understand, Spock. I’ll leave you alone.’

The captain very deliberately picked up one glass, but left the other two and the bottle. Spock did not move his head, and he heard rather than saw the door to his quarters opening and closing.

‘Please, Doctor,’ he said after a moment.

He looked up slowly, trying to catch McCoy in the corner of his eyes rather than look at him directly. McCoy unscrewed the lid of the bottle and poured out two glasses of Scotch, then picked one up and took a mouthful.

‘Please, McCoy,’ Spock tried again. ‘I – do want to be alone.’

‘Yes, I know you do, Spock,’ McCoy said in a sympathetic tone. ‘But I would be remiss in my duties if I left you alone right now.’

‘Please,’ Spock said, then with some difficulty said, ‘Please, Bones.’

The doctor looked startled. ‘Well, now I know you need me,’ he said, pushing Spock’s glass closer towards him. ‘Spock, I know today must have been incredibly difficult.’

Spock picked up his glass abruptly, feeling the hard, cold, rounded surface against his fingers. He lifted it to his lips and swallowed half of the liquid in there.

‘Difficult,’ he said, ‘is not an adequate word.’

He closed his eyes, perhaps as if in closing them he could pretend that McCoy was not in the room. But when he closed them the dark bands began to constrict on him, his lungs seemed to stutter, the memories blossomed like ink dropped in water.

‘Please, McCoy,’ he tried again. ‘I will have to go through this again tomorrow. I need to be alone. I need – ’

‘You are in no fit state to be alone,’ McCoy told him in a low, firm voice. ‘I’m sorry, Spock, but nothing you say will convince me to leave you to this. Nothing.’

Spock took another mouthful of the Scotch and found that he had finished the glass. He expected McCoy to pour him another, but he did not.

‘I think that’s enough,’ the doctor said, taking his own unfinished glass and putting both it and Spock’s glass on a surface on the other side of the room. ‘Now. I don’t ask that you talk to me about what you’ve been through today, Spock. I don’t ask that you talk to me at all. But I am going to stay here for as long as it takes for you to work your way out of this, and I will do the same tomorrow, and the day after, and however long this trial takes.’

Spock closed his eyes again and exhaled very slowly, trying to take the chaotic thoughts inside his mind and calm them down to something manageable. He wanted to go into the bathroom and scrub his body clean, but he knew logically that he was already clean, and he did not want to subject himself to those oblique and reflected glimpses of his naked body. He knew that he would have to get this under control. He would have to present himself properly if called tomorrow. If he could not answer questions then it was likely that the whole trial would collapse, and all of this would be for nothing. Besides, if he did not manage to control his emotions then it was likely that the good doctor would stay in his quarters all night, and he did not want that to happen.

  


 


	22. Chapter 22

Spock was half expecting McCoy to forbid him to testify after that first day. He had spent the evening largely without speaking, trying hard to meditate, finding that the memories were rising in him and snapping through his mind like slaps to the face. McCoy had sat there all that time, watching him, occasionally uttering a few reassuring words. It was something much like hand-holding, reassuring but not invasive. When Spock had finally gone to bed McCoy had been there still, and when he woke some time around two a.m. with fear constricting his chest McCoy had been sitting in the chair by the bed, half asleep himself, but ready to reassure him.

This dependence on the presence of another was disturbing and unpleasant, but he knew that without McCoy in the room the night would have felt twice as long. In a way he wished that McCoy would forbid him to testify, would drag up some obscure medical decree that would absolutely prevent him from entering that room. He wished someone would take the decision out of his hands and order him to leave it, to let it fade into the past, no matter what the consequences. But McCoy did not forbid him to testify. After prescribing more meditation and then giving him a mild sedative the next morning, the doctor carefully and gently escorted Spock to his next session in the briefing room when he was called, and waited outside until the communication was over.

‘Are you all right, Spock?’ the doctor asked as soon as the door opened.

Spock frowned a little, trying to work out how to answer. He was far from all right, but he knew that the doctor was aware of that. He was asking how he was in the context of the extreme mental stress that he was currently undergoing.

‘I am – acceptable,’ he said carefully.

‘Do you think they’ll call you again?’ McCoy asked as they turned down the corridor.

Spock shook his head.

‘I do not know,’ he said.

He did not feel like speaking. He hoped that McCoy would glean that from the shortness of his responses.

‘Do you want to go grab a bite to eat?’

Spock shook his head again, and McCoy persisted.

‘You know, you need to eat, Spock. You need to keep gaining weight.’

‘I will eat,’ Spock assured him. ‘But I will not eat right now.’

‘All right,’ McCoy said in a gently tolerant voice. ‘As long as you have a proper meal at some point today. I don’t want to have to haul your Vulcan ass back to sickbay and put you on a special diet.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Spock murmured.

‘In that case, I guess you want to go back to your quarters?’

‘Your guess is correct,’ Spock said.

Inside, Spock sat in the wooden chair behind his desk, and McCoy settled on the ship-standard chair opposite.

‘How did it go today, Spock?’ he asked gently.

Spock stared down at his hands, which were clasped on the desk. When he released the tension between his fingers they began to shake, just a little. He needed to better control his physical responses.

‘As I had expected,’ he said, hardly moving his lips as he spoke.

‘And you don’t want to talk about it,’ McCoy said.

‘I have just talked about it for two hours,’ Spock replied, his gaze seeming to harden for a moment.

‘Do you think it’s going your way?’ McCoy asked.

‘I cannot possibly tell.’

‘Spock,’ the doctor began. He hesitated, then began again, ‘Spock, if necessary you could ask for a recess – a couple of days to step away from it all, recover your control.’

Spock closed his eyes. He felt immensely tired. He was sure that in all of his time on the surface of Alphonae Prime, labouring in chains and with the threat of whipping and other punishment, he had never felt this tired. It was as if his bones had been filled with lead as he sat in that room, answering questions that felt like a stripping away of his skin.

‘It will be better to have it over sooner,’ he said, surprising himself with his words. This morning he would have given anything to be able to avoid what was to come, even for a few days. He had been desperate for McCoy to suggest this kind of reprieve.

‘All right,’ McCoy nodded.

‘It – is thought that there will be no more questions pertaining to – the rape,’ Spock said awkwardly, looking intently at his own hands again, watching his thumbs slip around each other in a continuing cycle, seeing the bend of his knuckles and his fingernails that were still too short and ragged in places.

McCoy breathed out loudly between his lips.

‘Well, that’s got to be good,’ he said. ‘Surely that’s a relief, Spock?’

‘Yes,’ Spock said, but there was doubt in his voice. ‘Provided, of course, that they are correct.’

‘You’re afraid of being lulled into a false sense of security?’ McCoy hazarded.

Spock nodded his head, once.

‘I wouldn’t focus on it, Spock,’ the doctor advised him. ‘Don’t dwell on that now. Concentrate on fixing the damage that’s been done.’

‘You are, of course, quite correct,’ Spock murmured.

The doctor sat quite still, just looking at him, for a moment, then got up and went across the room and slid back the door to the narrow alcove for preparing drinks and small snacks. Spock heard him pouring water and setting it to boil, and the doctor returned with steaming liquid in a grey cup.

‘Vulcan tea, or whatever you call it,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Spock said, lifting the cup and taking a sip of the scalding liquid. The tea settled in his stomach and seemed to warm him from the inside. He had not realised that he was cold until now. Slowly the warmth of his quarters and the heat of the tea were acting together to revive him.

‘This will all be over soon, Spock,’ the doctor said. ‘I promise you. Once the trial’s over you can start to move on. I know nothing will change what happened to you, but you will be able to deal with it in a much healthier way.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said.

The tea was warming him, but he still felt numb in his mind. His thought processes were frozen and stuttering. He looped back through the questions put to him via the court liaison, through the answers that he had tried to deliver as steadily and dispassionately as he could. Those answers played out as words in his brain, and then exploded into visions and sensations and sounds that transported him instantly out of his quarters and back onto Alphonae Prime, living in rags and subject to such terrible things that he wanted to curl into a ball and stay like that for ever.

‘Use me, Spock,’ McCoy said quietly. ‘Vent if you want to. I don’t mind. I can sit and listen to almost anything.’

Spock pressed his lips together hard. ‘I do not want to vent through speech,’ he said.

‘Then vent through actions,’ the doctor told him. ‘There are quite a few punch bags down in the gym, you know. They don’t care how hard you hit them.’

‘You suggest that I resort to violence?’

‘Yes, Spock,’ the doctor insisted. ‘Yes, I do. Controlled violence in a suitable arena against an inanimate object. I strongly suggest that you do that.’

He closed his eyes. He felt so tired. But the doctor was right. There was a furious current of adrenaline and anger inside him.

‘Get some gym clothes and go down there and lay into a punch bag,’ McCoy pressed. ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

‘No,’ Spock murmured. ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

He got up and opened one of his drawers. The fleet regulation scarlet leggings were in there, folded neatly, with a fleet regulation t-shirt on top, just as he had left them months ago. He fingered the fabric, thinking of how tightly fitting the leggings were. They had never been his favourite clothing, and even less so now. But an emotional response to clothing was one of the things which he must control. He swept the clothes out of the drawer, and turned to face the doctor.

‘I should not be more than an hour, Doctor,’ he said.

‘Take all the time in the world,’ McCoy assured him.

Spock left the doctor in his room and walked alone down to the gym. He passed people in the corridors but found it easier to not meet their eyes or speak to them. Most people were quite used to the Vulcan being unapproachable at times, and he was grateful for that reputation.

When he reached the gym it was almost empty. He changed in a private cubicle and then used the privilege of his rank to order a security override on the door of one of the small training rooms. There was a punch bag hanging from the ceiling, and a few soft mats on the floor, but that was it.

He stood there staring at the bag for a while. It was red, made of a substitute leather fabric and looked soft, but when he touched it with his fingertips he found that although it was soft at the surface it was quite solid and heavy, much like a human torso. This, then, was a representation of a human body. This device was for people to practice their skill at physically harming another. Spock had never seen the sense in boxing, although he was quite sanguine about the realistic need for those in jobs such as his to be able to defend themselves. He generally preferred to follow Vulcan methods of training, which rarely involved actually striking another being. The theory was quite sufficient to be carried through into actual confrontations when needed.

This, then, was something new. He knew that humans wore special gloves when they boxed, but after all, he was not here to box. He was here to release the seething pressure inside him.

He stood and stared for a moment longer, and then pulled back his fist, and slammed it into the punch bag. The bag swung on its chain, and he watched it, curious. Was this meant to make one feel better?

He could almost hear McCoy behind him, in his imagination, leaning forward and whispering, _Let go, Spock. You’re not letting go. Get_ angry _with the damn thing._

He closed his eyes momentarily, then loosened the rigid controls in his mind that he had been holding so tightly. He hit the bag again and again, harder and harder, until his fists hurt and his breath was coming in short gasps. He was unfit. He was not strong. But he hit again and again, until suddenly sound burst out of his throat in a roar, and he screamed at the thing. It whipped free of the chain and fell to the ground and he set upon it, sinking his fists into it until the fabric split and white stuffing billowed out of the gap, and then his fists were hitting the hard frame beneath, and blood smeared over the shining metal.

The sight of the vibrant green fluid shocked him back into awareness. His whole body was shaking and his face was wet. Had he been crying? He could hardly tell, but his face was wet and his lungs hurt. He felt as if he had a void inside him. Had he been thinking of Master Robert or Heaton or Newman or any one of his tormentors when he had been punching the bag? He could barely remember, but he knew that if any one of those men walked into this room right now they would be in severe danger.

He put his hands on the damaged punching bag, and this time he did see Master Robert in its place. He put his hands on either side and gripped, pushing down, imagining Master Robert’s neck in his grasp, compressing under the force of his muscles. He squeezed, his fingers pushing in, blood beading where his skin had split, and he saw Master Robert choking for air, gasping, flailing, his face becoming purple and his eyes bulging, until all the life was extinguished.

He stopped, horrified at what he had done. The punching bag swam back into view, pushing away the imagined corpse. Was this what humans did? Was this how they overcame trauma?

He pushed the bag away and sat still on the floor, trying to control his breathing and the urge to weep. But McCoy’s voice came to him again, asking, _Why, Spock? Why control it? Why not cry?_

He clenched his fists, staring at the smeared blood on his knuckles. There were still the remnants of scars on his wrists from where manacles had sat for so long. On his upper arm brand marks were still visible as toughened and damaged skin. At his wrists and elbows his bones were prominent beneath unhealthy, fatless flesh. He was reclaiming his body, but he was a long way from owning it completely. He knew that part of him was inextricably intertwined with Master Robert and what he had done, and no amount of running or screaming or hitting would get him away from that.

The walls were closing in again. He could feel his lungs freezing and his field of awareness was constricting. He forced himself to move enough that he could hit the intercom and call for Dr McCoy, but that was all that he could manage before he sank into the diminishing space that was closing down around him.

When the doctor arrived he had to use his medical override for the door, and Spock could feel McCoy’s agitation even through the noose of panic that was keeping him from moving. A hypo hissed against his arm, and suddenly breathing became possible again, his muscles began to let go. The doctor was wiping the blood from his knuckles and playing a healing beam over the splits in his skin and Spock tried to uncurl himself, to take in the room around him again and ground himself in reality.

‘What happened, Spock?’ McCoy asked quietly, and Spock shook his head.

‘I do not know,’ he murmured. He sat silent, and then said, ‘I – do believe the physical activity helped, but – ’

‘You went into a full on panic attack,’ McCoy told him. ‘It’s easing off now.’

‘Yes, I know. I thought – I found – I – do not seem to be able to separate myself from – _him_.’

McCoy put a hand on his arm. ‘I think you’re going to have to bring yourself to talk about it, Spock,’ he said. ‘I mean, in the context of therapy, not answering questions in a court of law. I want you to come to my office and we’re going to talk through these things and find some strategies for dealing with it.’

Spock closed his eyes. He had to admit that his own attempts to deal with the memories through meditation were not entirely successful.

‘It’s too much for you, Spock,’ McCoy said. ‘You can’t do it all alone.’

‘No,’ Spock said. ‘You are right. Something must be done.’

‘Good,’ McCoy said. ‘That’s good, Spock. And we’ll do it. We’ll exorcise that demon, I promise. He can’t harm you physically any more. We’ll make it so that the memory of him can’t harm you either.’

 


	23. Chapter 23

Spock was beginning to feel as if he might as well still be sleeping in the sick bay, considering the amount of time he was spending there for treatments for his scars, nutrition and health assessments, and the counselling at which McCoy was proving astonishingly adept. For the next few days the calls to testify in the trial of his abusers came sporadically, but outside of that time he seemed to be always sitting in the sick bay for one reason or another. He wished that he could be allowed back to the bridge, even on greatly restricted duties, but McCoy was adamant.

‘No, you’re definitely not ready for that,’ he told the Vulcan. ‘And the only way you can get back on duty is on my say so, so don’t even think of going to Jim and trying to talk him round. Chekov’s more than capable of filling your role at the moment.’

Spock sat in a treatment chair while the doctor played a healing beam over the last shadows of branding on his upper arm. There were still lash marks on his back that would need to be seen to, but the final removal of the brands felt like a more important step. It was those that had marked him out so clearly as property. It was those marks that he saw whenever he glanced down at his bare arm. Those and the marks from the manacles and shackles were marks of his enslavement. The lash marks at least were marks of his rebellion.

‘I am certain that being able to focus on my duties would help me to overcome the problems I have been experiencing,’ Spock said.

‘I’m not,’ McCoy said firmly. ‘You’re doing better, Spock. You’re doing a lot better. But the bridge of a Starship is no place for you at the moment. Now, I can let you do a little in the labs in a week or so, maybe, but nothing that will put undue stress on you. You need this chance to recover.’

Spock nodded. Work in the labs was more than he had hoped, but he imagined that any work he did would be under the doctor’s eye. He understood McCoy’s caution. If he suffered what McCoy called a ‘panic attack’ on the bridge, or even in the labs with certain equipment or chemicals to hand, the ship could be put in danger.

The intercom whistled, and McCoy put down his equipment to lean over and answer it.

‘Lieutenant Uhura here,’ came the mellow voice of the ship’s communications officer. ‘Is Mr Spock there, Doctor?’

‘I am,’ Spock said, before the doctor could reply.

‘Mr Spock, we’ve just been told that the defence and prosecution have rested,’ she said in a somewhat softer voice. ‘The jury are retiring to consider their verdict.’

‘Th-thank you, Lieutenant,’ Spock said, finding himself thrown off balance by the sudden news. He cleared his throat, and then asked, ‘Do you know how long that may take, Lieutenant?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Spock, I don’t,’ she replied. ‘They didn’t say. But they said they’ll be sure to let you know when they come back in.’

‘Thank you,’ Spock said again, his tone distracted.

‘Yes, thanks, Uhura,’ McCoy told her warmly. He cut the channel and turned to Spock, smiling. ‘Well, that’s one piece of good news, Spock. You won’t be called again.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said pensively.

‘What’s wrong, Spock?’ the doctor asked curiously.

‘One can never tell what the verdict may be,’ he said.

‘Spock it’s clear cut, surely!’ McCoy exclaimed. ‘With the evidence we gave them, and your testimony! They abducted you and enslaved you and subjected you to horrific treatment. They’ll have the key thrown away!’

‘Perhaps,’ Spock said.

He could not be so positive. He had not been taken from Federation space. He had landed on the planet and been imprisoned on the farmer’s property, technically while trespassing. He had no witnesses beyond the other slaves who had been rescued, whose testimony could be suspect due to their desire to escape their own captivity. Federation law was such a vast and ever-changing business due to the huge amounts of peoples and civilisations that it covered. It was not possible for him to be sanguine about the verdict.

‘You can’t do anything about it, Spock,’ the doctor said, cutting into his thoughts. ‘Best to not think about it. Let me get on with this treatment, and then you can go take a break. You should go see Jim. He’s been complaining he’s hardly seen you recently.’

‘Yes, perhaps I will,’ Spock said. It was true that he had seen little of the captain recently, partly because he had been so involved in his various treatments, but also partly because he was not sure how to interact with him. Kirk reacted awkwardly to Spock’s difficulties, and Spock responded awkwardly in return.

‘Go and have a game of chess with him, or something,’ McCoy said, as if he had been reading Spock’s thoughts. ‘Something normal. Don’t think about this trial. Focus on beating Jim.’

Spock nodded. Chess was somewhat meditative, and did help to distract him from other problems. He made up his mind that if Jim was free then he  _would_ spend time with him.

******

Jim’s quarters were warm and dimly lit. Spock felt sure that the captain had turned up the heat in deference to his Vulcan guest, since he did not usually have them at this temperature. The three dimensional chess board was set up between them on the desk, and Spock was losing badly.

‘Perhaps I should not have suggested chess,’ Spock said, regarding the few scattered pieces that were still left to him.

There was a very obvious move that the captain could make in order to win in no more than four moves, but Jim did not take it. Spock was sure that he was aware of the move, but he moved a pawn instead, then sat back and waited for Spock to make his counter move.

‘Don’t like getting beaten, eh?’ Jim asked with a smile.

‘It is not that at all, Jim,’ Spock protested. ‘But I am hardly a worthy adversary at this time. You are deliberately playing badly, Jim, and you are still winning.’

‘Deliberately playing badly?’ Kirk asked, his eyes widened with innocence.

‘Jim, it is quite obvious,’ Spock told him.

‘Well, maybe I am,’ his captain admitted. ‘But in that case you obviously need practice. It must be a long time since you played.’ He pushed Spock’s glass a little closer to him and said, ‘Drink up, Spock. Maybe if you relax a little you’ll get your chess brain going.’

‘It is all the same brain, Jim,’ Spock pointed out, but he picked up the glass and took a sip of the alcohol inside.

He sat and stared at the chess pieces on the various levels, before realising that although he was staring he was not taking in their positions, nor was he cogitating his next move. He reached out his hand and tipped his king.

‘I am sorry, Jim,’ he said. ‘I am simply not concentrating. You have beat me three times in a row.’

‘It’s all right, Spock,’ Kirk said with a soft smile. ‘Don’t worry about it. I admit I’ve missed our games, but I can wait a little longer. Not too much longer, though,’ he said in a mock-threatening voice. ‘Bones can’t play for toffee.’

Spock inclined his head. ‘I shall do my best to return to normal,’ he promised.

Jim looked at him and an odd expression passed behind his eyes, as if there were things that he wished to say but could not bring himself to say them. Then he lifted his glass and tipped the remainder of the drink into his mouth.

‘Come on, Spock,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’s not doing you any good sitting around here. Let’s take a walk.’

‘To where do you propose walking?’ Spock asked, but he got up and joined him.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Wherever we end up. Lieutenant Uhura can reach us anywhere, if she needs to call about the trial.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Spock murmured.

They walked out into corridor, and Spock fell into step beside his captain, clasping his hands behind his back. This felt  _almost_ normal. Almost. He was well enough now that he could keep up with Jim without a problem. Crew members in the corridors barely spared them a glance. Perhaps, perhaps, things would be all right. Perhaps everything would settle back as it should be and he would be able to go on with his life. He could visualise putting the horrific two thirds of a year behind him, and moving forward.

‘Command’s proposing sending us out near the neutral zone soon, Spock,’ Kirk said, obviously trying to reinforce this feeling of normality. ‘There’s been some extra activity recently. A few too many Romulan ships a little too close to the border. Conflict’s unlikely, but they want us out there as a show of muscle, just in case.’

‘A wise decision,’ Spock nodded.

A lieutenant from engineering passed them, a man that Spock had always been relatively friendly with. He looked at Spock and opened his mouth to speak, and then seemed to think better of it, and passed on. Spock turned and watched him walking away, wondering what might be going in the minds of the humans on this ship. He had had fascinating conversations with Lieutenant Obel, and while he would not call him a friend he was accustomed to exchanging greetings in the corridor, even just a nod.

But something had happened. He was willing to acknowledge that his own behaviour had not been encouraging. On seeing the man approach Spock had turned his gaze away and looked deliberately at middle distance. He had felt unable to open up even a casual greeting with someone from his past life, someone he had not seen since before he had been sent crashing onto Alphonae Prime by the ion storm. There was a barrier, and he did not know how to breach it. Obel had sensed that barrier and been equally unable to cross over. How long would this go on?

‘Mr Spock?’ Kirk asked, and Spock looked at him sharply.

‘I’m sorry, Captain. Were you speaking?’ he asked.

‘Nothing important,’ Jim said. ‘I got the feeling I didn’t have your full attention.’

‘I apologise,’ Spock said.

‘No need,’ Jim assured him. ‘Here we are.’

A door hissed open, and Spock followed Kirk in, realising that they had arrived at the observation deck. The room was empty, the lights off, and Kirk did not turn them on. A little light shone up from the shuttle bay behind, where large slanting windows overlooked the big room. The rest of the light filtered through the windows on the other side of the room, and was from the stars alone.

Spock walked up to the window without speaking. He had neglected to do this since he had returned. How had he forgotten? He had spent so much time on Alphonae Prime wishing to see the stars, or gazing up at them in moments of quiet, promising himself that one day he would leave that planet’s gravity and return to space. And here he was. He had not looked out of an external window in all of the time since he had been beamed up,  caught up in treatments and recovery and trying to understand what was happening in his mind.

The stars were still and fiercely brilliant, undistorted by shimmering waves of atmosphere or moisture in the air. They burnt with a cold, relentless light.  That was science. It was certainty. He looked out at them and recognised them like familiar faces.  Vulcans did not organise stars into meaningless constellations any more, but he had learnt the constellations on his time on Earth, during his days at the academy. It seemed impossible to look into the sky there without someone pointing out a constellation and speaking of the attendant myth. He had bought himself a book and learnt the Western names and the history behind them.

There. That was Achernar, the river’s end, one hundred and forty four light years from Earth. There were Acamar and Cursa. Those names were Arabic, and they sat well in a mouth accustomed to Vulcan words. There was nothing to link th ose stars together in Vulcan history, but humans held th em in a chain, a constellation called Eridanus.  F rom this angle,  and from Vulcan. they did not represent a river. There was nothing that tied the m together,  since c onstellations were the conceits of the planet-bound. But there. There was 40 Eridani, about which orbited Vulcan. There was home.

His throat seemed to constrict, and he felt a heat starting up in his eyes. Surely these were not tears? He could not stand here on the observation deck and cry at the sight of stars. He swallowed hard and worked at pushing away that desperate urge to let go.

‘Spock,’ Jim said. He came up close behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, quite fine, Captain,’ Spock managed to say, but his voice sounded odd and choked.

‘That’s Vulcan out there, isn’t it?’ Jim asked.

Spock nodded tightly. ‘It is quite impossible to see the planet from here,’ he said. ‘But it is 40 Eridani in the centre of the field.’

‘Would you like some time back home, Spock?’ Kirk asked him quietly. ‘Would that help? I think Command would give you as much time as you needed.’

Spock imagined standing in the heat of a Vulcan night and looking up at the cloudless, moonless sky. The stars were much more steady and clear on Vulcan than they were from the surface of Earth, or from Alphonae Prime. There was hardly ever a cloud to disturb the view. His first eighteen years on Vulcan seemed to rush over him in a wave. He had spent more of his life away from his home now than he had spent living there. But still, it was his home. He missed the heat and the dry, thin air, and the scents of the earth and plants, the sounds of the creatures that lived in the desert.

His throat constricted again. This was intolerable. How could he return to duty if he could not look at colleagues in the corridor, if the sight of his home star gave him the urge to weep?

‘I do not need time on Vulcan, Jim,’ he said, greatly against his instinct. ‘It would be better to grow used to my home here again.’

Kirk patted his shoulder lightly. ‘Well, if we get orders to pass near there I’m sending you for a few days R&R,’ he promised. ‘Because I think it would do you the world of good, even if you don’t. You could visit with your parents.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said.

He had not spoken directly to his parents, although he had written to his mother not long after his rescue  and told her the bare minimum necessary to reassure her . He had asked her not to call him on the comm, and she had respected that wish. He could not imagine how he would speak to them, and he could not imagine how awkward and complicated a visit would be. Sarek would wish to know all the details of his eight months in captivity, and the best way to deal with that seemed to be to not speak to him at all.

The intercom whistled, and Spock caught himself just before he started visibly. He turned sharply towards the comm, but allowed Kirk to answer it.

‘Captain, Lieutenant Uhura,’ the communications officer said. ‘The jury have delivered their verdict.’

Spock felt his spine stiffen. Everything in the room seemed to sharpen. The stars were brighter and the air was colder.

‘Very well, Lieutenant,’ Kirk replied, and Spock could hear the tension in his voice.

‘Would you like me to relay it here, Captain?’ Uhura asked. ‘Is Mr Spock with you?’

Kirk glanced briefly at Spock, and he nodded stiffly.

‘Yes, go ahead, Lieutenant,’ Kirk said.

‘Mr Heaton and Mr Newman were both found guilty, sir,’ she said, but there was hesitation in her voice.

Spock felt something expanding inside him, like a cloud building before a storm rolled over the land. Uhura continued almost without pause, but that minute pause could have been a year. Something was wrong. Something had gone wrong. It was obvious from her tone and her phrasing.

‘Mr Robert Heaton was found not guilty,’ she said, and her voice was loaded with apologetic regret.

The air seemed to freeze. Everything became hard. Spock stared at the stars through the plate of the window and they lost all of their meaning and became nothing but points of light against the ever expanding darkness.

Kirk said, ‘ _What?_ ’

‘Mr Robert Heaton was found not guilty,’ Uhura repeated, and her voice, soft as it was, seemed to shatter the brittle air.

‘But – how – ?’ Kirk stuttered.

Spock took a step forward towards the windows. He seemed to be collapsing inside. He could feel Jim’s eyes on him. Disbelief was thick in the air. Disbelief. Disbelief of what? The jury had not believed him. Did Jim believe him?

‘He – did – ’ Spock began, but he hardly knew how to speak.

‘Thank you, Uhura,’ Kirk said in a hurried voice, and then he was standing behind Spock, a hand on each arm, holding him hard. ‘This is not over, Spock,’ he said, and his voice sounded as hard and brittle as Spock felt. ‘It is not over.’

Spock could not speak, but he felt through that hard contact with his arms Kirk’s hot indignation flaring like something alive. The disbelief was all for the verdict, nothing else. Nothing else at all. He stood and stared at the stars through the window, and did not know what to think.


	24. Chapter 24

He did not know if he had been standing still for a long time or for a second. Jim’s hands were clenched so hard on his arms that it was close to hurting. The stars were still burning in the blackness of space, each one a slightly different shade of almost-white. The ship vibrated almost imperceptibly, the vibrations moving through the deck plate and into his boots and up through the bones of his legs. The air felt so thick that he was not sure he could draw in breath. Nine months ago he had been sitting in a shuttle alone, self-assured, cataloguing those stars, with his own appreciation of the beauty of the scientific complexities of which they were made. He had felt entire, confident, intact. Now he felt torn in as many different directions as there were stars before him. He felt as stable as the nascent supernovae that he had been out there to detect.

‘Spock,’ Jim said behind him. ‘ _Spock_.’

His voice was low and almost pleading. Spock stood very still. He felt quite unable to speak. His mouth worked, and eventually he managed to say, ‘I do not understand.’

Jim’s fingers squeezed briefly on his arms, and then the tension lessened.

‘I don’t understand either,’ he said, his voice grim. ‘But I’m going to find out what the hell’s gone on here. I swear to you, Spock, I will find out and put this right.’

Spock closed his eyes, shutting out the brightness of the stars and seeing only the green-tinted light through his eyelids. There was so much to be put right, and most of it was internal to him. Jim had always emulated a knight in shining armour, but this was not a dragon to be killed or a town to be sacked, nor even a population to be converted. Jim could not reach inside his head and heal what had been broken.

The intercom whistled again, and the sound of it pierced his head. Jim’s hands let go, and then McCoy’s voice was heard, saying, ‘Jim. Jim, is Spock there? Have you heard – ?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ Kirk replied grimly. ‘And yes, Spock is here.’

‘Is he all right?’ the doctor asked, his voice more hushed, and Kirk replied, ‘I don’t know, Bones.’

‘I’ll meet you in his quarters,’ McCoy said instantly.

The intercom clicked off, and the air was filled with silence again. Spock opened his eyes again and saw the stars before him, constant and real. How could this be? How could every horror that had been perpetrated upon him by that boy be dismissed? How could his calm and logical testimony be disbelieved?

‘Spock,’ Jim said.

Spock moved then, turning a little. He saw sympathy in Jim’s hazel eyes.

‘Spock, come on,’ Jim told him.

He felt as if he were half-waking from sleep. He walked with Jim through the brightly lit corridors, but he did not focus on either the lines of the walls or the people that they passed. Jim took him to his room and the door slid open, and he walked into the blessed heat and dim light. McCoy was already there, his medical kit in his hand, his eyes wide with sympathy.

‘Spock, sit down, why don’t you?’ he said.

Spock sat heavily in the chair behind his desk and clasped his hands in his lap. He did not know where to look. The doctor came close to him and held out a medical scanner  which warbled quietly , but Spock did not protest.

‘I’ve got the report on the jury’s decision,’ McCoy said in a low voice, speaking to Kirk rather than to Spock. ‘As soon as I heard I had a word with Spock’s court liaison and she sent it over to me. I think she’d like to speak to him when she can.’

‘Of course, Bones,’ Jim said in an equally quiet voice. ‘But I don’t think he’s – ’

‘No,’ McCoy said, as if he’d understood exactly what Kirk meant.

‘Gentlemen,’ Spock said quietly from his seat behind the desk, and they both turned and stared at him as if a firecracker had gone off.

‘Spock, are you all right?’ McCoy asked.

‘I am – acceptable,’ Spock said.

He was not acceptable. He felt as if he were falling apart inside. But it was easier to tell McCoy that he was acceptable.

‘Do you want to read that report, Spock?’ McCoy asked.

‘I – would rather you relay pertinent points,’ Spock replied.

‘Well...’ The doctor sat down in the chair opposite Spock and swivelled the computer screen on its base so that it was facing away from Spock and towards himself. He dropped a square yellow disc into the slot, and turned the screen on. He sat silent for a few moments, his eyes scanning the screen, then said, ‘It was – well – he played it for all the sympathy he could get, I think. He broke down in tears a number of times. He said that you were attacked by his friends but he never touched you that first time. And later it was consensual, he said.’

‘But Bones, how could they believe that for a moment?’ Kirk raged. He wasso agitated that he was pacing, his feet making dull thumps on the deck as he moved between door and desk. ‘Against your medical evidence, against Spock’s testimony? How could they believe that?’

Spock waited in silence. McCoy told him in a tone of deep reluctance, ‘He argued that he was sorry for you, for all the slaves, and he wanted to help you. You asked for it, for comfort. Apparently he  broke down and said he hadn’t known he might be accused of doing something wrong, that it was quite normal to sleep with the slaves.’

‘But – surely they had your testimony, Bones!’ Kirk interjected. ‘The injuries. There – _were_ injuries?’

Spock flinched, closing his eyes and letting darkness settle over him for a moment,  remembering pain, bleeding, and the bruises that he had been left with on his arms and hips.

‘Yes, they had my testimony,’ McCoy said heavily. ‘He contested that – Well – ’

He stopped, and after a moment Spock said, ‘Doctor...’

‘He said that you – enjoyed roughness,’ McCoy said in a rush. ‘His lawyer contested that Vulcan intercourse is often – ’

Spock closed his eyes again. Enough rumours of pon farr had seeped out over the years that there was a misconception that Vulcans were emotionless in everything, but let loose their passion violently at times.

‘The jury – er – the jury seemed to think you didn’t show enough distress,’ the doctor continued. ‘They thought you were too calm, that you didn’t seem to be upset enough. They just – Well, he presented himself as a fragile, innocent child, full of regret at what had happened, terrified of what might happen to him. And his lawyer presented you as an emotionless robot out for whatever you could get. And that was it.’

‘That was it,’ Spock echoed.

‘That is _not_ it,’ Kirk said furiously. ‘Spock, we are not leaving it at this. I will not stand for that monster to get off scot free after what he did to you.’

Spock stood up heavily and moved wordlessly into his sleeping area. He lay down on top of the blanket and let his body sink into the warmth and comfort there. He closed his eyes and saw the stars in his memory, just as he had seen them from the observation deck. He heard McCoy say, ‘No, leave him, Jim.’

That was good. He did not think he could answer further questions or initiate speech.  He rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up closer to his chest, finding comfort in that semi-foetal position. He heard Kirk pacing still, and McCoy doing something with the computer.

‘This isn’t it,’ Kirk said in a low, hard voice, obviously not meant for Spock ears. ‘This is not the end.’ There was the flick of a switch, and then Jim said, ‘Helm, I want course set for Starbase 73 immediately. Maximum warp.’

Sulu’s voice filtered through the intercom, saying, ‘But sir, our orders were to – ’

‘To _hell_ with the orders,’ Kirk snapped. ‘These are _my_ orders, Mr Sulu. See you carry them out.’

After the smallest of pauses Sulu replied, ‘Yes, sir. Chekov has the course laid in. We’ll be there in just under two hours.’

Something seemed to flop over in Spock’s chest, but he lay still with his eyes closed, watching the stars in his memory, and listening.

‘What are you going to do, Jim?’ McCoy asked in a low voice. ‘You can’t just go there and take him. You can’t abduct someone who’s been cleared by a Federation court of law. I know we’re out on the fringes here, but you can’t get away with cowboy diplomacy at a Federation starbase.’

‘I don’t intend to, Bones,’ Kirk said grimly. His voice dropped another level. ‘Now, listen, Bones. Spock is a Vulcan citizen, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, of course,’ McCoy replied, as if that were self-evident.

‘He’s also an Earth citizen. I mean, his mother was born on Earth if I remember correctly. I’m sure that Spock is registered with dual nationality. I remember in his file – ’

‘Yes. Yes, I think he is,’ the doctor said in a musing tone. ‘I’m pretty sure he is. It’s – well, it’s logical.’

Spock lay still, and the stars burned in his vision. He saw Eridani 40, and in his mind he turned and saw Sol too, burning whiter and smaller than his home star. Yes, he was also a citizen of Earth. He had rarely had cause to use that citizenship, but it had been useful when he entered Starfleet and begun training in San Francisco. It had saved a lot of bureaucratic hurdles.

‘Well then,’ Kirk said. ‘The Federation is an umbrella, but both Earth and Vulcan have their own legal systems and processes to protect their citizens, don’t they? And Spock is still a citizen of both Earth and Vulcan. Therefore we have two shots left.’

‘Jim, you’d have to arrange extradition in _two hours_ ,’ McCoy reminded him. ‘They’ll be getting him off that place as soon as possible. He might already be gone.’

Kirk’s voice was grim. ‘I know people. I have strings that I can pull.’

The intercom switch clicked again, and Kirk said, ‘Lieutenant Uhura, get me Commander Nyan’ca on Starbase 73. And quickly, Lieutenant. This is urgent.’

Uhura said softly, ‘Aye, sir,’ and after a short space of time another female voice came through the system, saying, ‘Jim, long time no see. Is this about the trial? You know, I wish you’d come round to visit when you dropped those guys off.’

‘It is, Yaneck,’ Kirk said in a fond voice. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t have time then and I don’t have a lot of time now. That one prisoner – Robert Heaton. The one who was acquitted. Is he still on the station?’

‘Yes, he is,’ the commander replied in a rather suspicious tone. ‘He’s lording it about the place at the moment, too, from what I’ve heard. He’s supposed to be getting a transport in about an hour, I think.’

‘Don’t let him leave,’ Kirk said quickly. ‘ _Don’t_ let him leave Yaneck. This is important. Do you trust me?’

She laughed melodically. ‘I have always trusted you, Jimmy. I would have thought you’d know that by now.’

‘Then don’t let him leave,’ Kirk repeated. ‘I don’t care how you do it – just _keep him on that base._ ’

There was a short silence, and then the commander said, ‘I think there might be sufficient emigration procedures to hold him for a while, and it’s just possible that the  _Rose Parks_ could suffer a little engine trouble. I’m  on good terms with her captain, too.’

‘You are a star, Yaneck,’ Kirk said. ‘Thank you. We’ll be there in two hours and if I get the time I promise I will make it up to you. Thank you.’

‘I will hold you to that, Jimmy,’ the commander said in a purring voice. ‘Nyan’ca out.’

‘That’s all well and good, Jim,’ McCoy’s voice rose as soon as the channel was closed, ‘but you can’t just take him off a Federation starbase without damn good reason. _You’ll_ end up being the one in the dock at this rate.’

‘I won’t, Bones,’ Kirk said determinedly. ‘I’m going to pull some more of those strings.’

The intercom clicked again, and Kirk said, ‘Uhura, get me Ambassador Sarek. I don’t care where he is or what time it is for him, I need to speak to him urgently.’

Spock’s heart seemed to lurch in his chest. He clenched his hands on the blanket beneath him, and started up to a sitting position, saying, ‘Jim, please. You cannot – ’

‘Watch me,’ Kirk said, his voice like ice.

McCoy jumped to his feet and came round into Spock’s sleeping area, saying, ‘Now, Spock, you know this is the only avenue left. Sarek is our best hope.’

‘Captain,’ Spock said, trying hard to keep the tone of desperation from his voice. ‘I beg you not to – ’

But a voice on the intercom cut through his words. Sarek, saying, ‘Captain Kirk. I am engaged in a very serious meeting. Please be brief.’

‘Spock, just let Jim do this,’ McCoy said under his breath, barely moving his mouth, obviously afraid of being picked up on the intercom. ‘Let him do this, and he will fix whatever needs to be fixed.’

Spock lay down again under McCoy’s pressuring hands. He did not know what to say. His heart was thudding against the side of his chest and his mouth seemed to have lost all of its moisture. He refused to succumb to what McCoy termed a panic attack. He would not allow it to happen. But the doctor’s scanner warbled again, and then he said, ‘I’m going to give you a mild sedative, Spock. Okay?’

Spock did not reply, and felt the hypo hiss against his arm. He rested back on the bed, feeling a numbness start to blunt the edges of his raw emotions and his heart rate start to settle back to something more normal, as Kirk said, ‘Ambassador Sarek, I’m not sure how brief I can be, but this is an urgent situation. It’s about Spock.’

  
  


 


	25. Chapter 25

Spock lay very still and listened. He did not understand how Jim could speak to Sarek about this, even under these circumstances. What would he say to him? Spock had told his mother the barest of details and she had not pressed him for more, respecting his privacy in the matter even when she was anxious to know exactly what had happened. He had not attempted to speak to Sarek at all.

He did not want to hear what Kirk would say, or what Sarek would say in reply, but he could do nothing but lie and listen. He could not run away like a child and hide in a dark corner with his hands over his ears. The sedative that McCoy had given him dulled the edges of the urge to panic, dulled the impetus to get to his feet and move away from all this. He lay on his side in a kind of torpor, while in the other area of his quarters Kirk talked.

‘Ambassador, are you aware of what Spock suffered while he was on Alphonae Prime?’ he asked in a clipped voice.

‘I am aware only that he was forced into slavery, and that he was not treated well,’ Sarek said. His voice was level, but to someone as used to him as Spock was the emotions of distaste were obvious beneath those words. ‘Spock has not privileged us with further information.’

‘Ambassador, I don’t have a lot of time to go into detail,’ Kirk said. ‘But the main aggressors against your son have been on trial under Federation law. One of them has just been acquitted. Ambassador, that person perpetrated such – ’ He stopped, obviously flailing for a word, and then said baldy, ‘Ambassador, I must be frank. An eighteen year old human raped your son, multiple times. He was acquitted because the jury was manipulated into thinking he was an innocent youth and that Spock somehow asked for it. I believe their decision was based on a fundamental misunderstanding of Vulcan reactions to emotional situations and was highly prejudiced against Vulcans and towards humans. I want him retried, and I want it to happen on Vulcan. Spock is a Vulcan citizen and he has that right.’

There was silence in the room. Spock lay and listened, trying to resist the urge to bite his lip into his mouth. He felt like a four year old child waiting for Sarek’s verdict on something that he had done wrong. He kept his eyes closed, quite unable to face the light and contours of the room around him.

‘Explain why this is urgent, Kirk,’ Sarek said eventually.

Spock knew that he must have gone through a hundred conflicting thoughts before replying, but he had dismissed them as having no logical use to further the conversation, and had demanded the information that was most relevant. Spock felt as if he had had a temporary reprieve from his father’s judgement.

‘Because he’s due to leave the starbase where he was tried in an hour’s time, Ambassador,’ Kirk said. ‘The base commander is going to delay him all that she can, and we should be there in two hours. I’m already disobeying orders by altering our course back to the starbase, but I think I’ll be able to get away with it. But if he’s allowed to return to his planet then there’s no guarantee we’d ever be able to find him again, even if I could get permission to go there after him. I justified pulling him out of that place once, but now he’s been acquitted by a Federation court and once he’s out of Federation space again I don’t think anyone would sanction my going there and getting him back. We need the appropriate legal framework for extradition to Vulcan and we need it before he can leave that base.’

‘Send me the relevant details. I need the complete file of charges and evidence presented by the prosecution. If it can be done, you will have your order of extradition before you arrive at the starbase,’ Sarek said crisply. ‘Out.’

The intercom hissed slightly with empty static, and then Kirk cut it off.

‘Well, Bones,’ he said.

McCoy didn’t reply to the captain. Instead he came around to Spock’s bed and crouched down near him, asking, ‘Spock are you all right?’

Spock opened his eyes but barely focussed on the doctor. He saw the softly throbbing light of his meditation statue, but it did not inspire the feelings of calm that the thing usually provoked.

‘Spock,’ McCoy said again.

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Spock said in a hollow voice.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I would prefer to be left alone,’ Spock said.

‘Spock – ’ Jim began from the other side of the bed. Spock saw the doctor look up quickly and shake his head, and the captain subsided.

Spock closed his eyes again. The effects of the sedative were holding him down. He was sleepy despite the clenching emotion at the core of his body. He heard two sets of footsteps leave the room, and he let himself sink a little further into the dark space that he was inhabiting.

He tried to rationalise his reaction to the events of the evening, which had come so fast and so close together. He had to make some logical sense of the multitude of emotions that were raging in his mind. He felt as if he had been subject to multiple shocks, to great fractures in the world around him. There was the trial. He had never been certain of a victory because one could never predict what humans may do, but he had been certain of his own story, certain of what had happened to him. He had been certain that he would be believed, no matter what the outcome of the trial. And now there was Master Robert – what was it the starbase commander had said? _Lording it about the place_. Those were her words. He could imagine that too clearly. Master Robert had lorded it about the farm too. He had thought that he was the most important person there.

But Spock had trusted that his story would be believed. He had trusted that the medical evidence was incontestable, even if it was possible that the jury would judge Master Robert too young or too misguided to be responsible for his actions. He could not imagine why anyone would believe that a person would willingly submit themselves to pain and injury of that type for sexual gratification. Far from being acknowledged as a victim, he had been made to seem a willing participant in what, to his mind, was an abhorrent act. Master Robert had been seen as the victim. He had garnered sympathy and been allowed to walk free while Spock felt as if he himself were constantly caged.

He suppressed a moan. He clenched his fingers into the soft foam of the mattress, trying to hold himself steady against the emotion inside. He should be able to rationalise and dismiss what had happened. He had suffered injury before. He had suffered indignity before. He should be able to process this and put it behind himself and move forward. But he could not. His treatment and his torture and his rape were like a blanket over him. No, more insidious than that. They had become intermeshed with the very fibre of his being. He could not rid himself of the thought of it every day. He could not look at anyone without those memories being laid over his vision. He could not eat without thinking of it. He could not look in the mirror or take a step. In everything he did he felt ready to cringe away, to shrink from pain, to protect himself by shutting down.

Perhaps there was logic there. He had been taught over eight months that the only escape was to close his mind away from those things, to keep his eyes averted and his head down and try to make himself as inconsequential as possible in the hope of being overlooked. It had not saved him from everything, but it had helped. But instead of growing less since his release this thing was like a snowball, gathering size, rolling over and over until it was large enough to crush.

And now there was Sarek. He lifted his fist to his mouth and pressed his knuckles so hard against his teeth that the recently healed skin split again. Even now Sarek would be reading through the details of the case. He would be examining McCoy’s evidence. He knew why Jim had done it, but to have Sarek cognisant of the facts of his case was an abhorrence that he could hardly bear. Even after what had amounted to a small reconciliation on the way to Babel, Spock’s relationship with his father was far from easy. He disclosed very little of his private affairs to him. And now for Sarek to see him stripped bare, reduced to this...

How would Sarek ever be able to forgive his son’s inability to protect himself? How would he be able to forgive his son’s inability to logically process what had happened and move on?

No. This was intolerable. He did not know how to process all of these things. He did not know how to pull himself through the next minute, the next hour, the next day, and then possibly to face the stripping bare of his soul again with a trial on Vulcan. If he could only close his eyes and stay sunken in the silent darkness and never have to face the light again. If only he could let his heart slow, and slow, and slow again, and have all this leave him, to fall into non-being.

It was so easy. Shallow one’s breathing. Slow the heart. Sink, sink further. Slow and slow and slow again until each beat was a momentary thud in a span of stillness. Draw the mind away from pain and confusion and face the wonder of oblivion. A beat. A rest. A beat. A longer rest. Soon there would be no beat at all.

A vision of the stars burnt abruptly into his vision, followed by a memory of his mother slapping his face so hard that his cheek had burnt. She had slapped him like that in her fury at the thought of him letting his father die. He gasped at the memory of that pain; not the physical pain in his cheek but the mental pain of her sense of anger and betrayal. The sudden intake of breath was like ice in his lungs. How much pain would he cause his mother if he let his body cease to function and sank into catatonic darkness and death? How much pain would he cause if he never woke up?

He forced himself up, up against the stultifying effect of the sedative, against the crushing darkness in his mind. He blinked his burning eyes open and reached out a hand to the intercom beside the bed, and pressed the button. He felt as if his head were lolling and his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, but he enunciated very carefully, ‘Spock to Dr McCoy.’

McCoy answered immediately, saying, ‘Spock you should be asleep by now. You take more tranquilliser than a horse.’

‘Doctor,’ Spock said very carefully. ‘I do not want to die.’

That seemed to galvanise the air in the room. After a moment’s pause McCoy said, ‘What in hell have you done, Spock?’

‘I have done nothing,’ Spock replied.

‘Thank god...’ McCoy breathed through the intercom. ‘Spock, are you all right? Do you need me to – ’

‘I have done nothing,’ Spock repeated, then said, ‘Would you come?’

The channel went dead, and Spock calculated it was no more than sixty seconds before his door was hissing open and McCoy thudded into the room. He slumped back onto the bed, the sedative pulling hard at him, trying to force him down.

‘Spock, what in hell was all that about?’ McCoy asked with the angry tone of a parent who had just been thoroughly scared.

Spock pushed his eyes open against the burning heat of sleep and said, ‘I began to will myself dead, Dr McCoy.’

‘For god’s sake, Spock,’ the doctor hissed, sitting down next to him, clasping his hand with what seemed like a clumsy pretence at taking his pulse. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

‘I began to will myself dead,’ Spock repeated, ‘but then I remembered stars, and my mother...’

The sedative was dragging at him, dulling the edges of his thoughts.

‘And then you willed yourself alive?’ McCoy asked. The doctor was perfectly aware that Spock was capable of pushing himself deep enough into a meditative state of whole body awareness that he could have stopped his heart beating. He waited a moment and then asked more sharply, ‘Spock, this is important. And then you willed yourself alive?’

‘Yes,’ Spock said. ‘I – need to fight...’

His eyes were drifting closed, he was forcing them open, they were drifting closed again.

‘Spock,’ McCoy said very loudly and clearly. ‘You haven’t taken anything else, have you? It’s just the sedative in your system?’

‘Not taken ’thing’lse,’ Spock said. He was losing the ability to form words.

The scanner warbled. It was a very far away noise.

‘All right, Spock,’ McCoy said. ‘Let the sedative do its job. Just sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.’

‘Mmm,’ Spock said, his eyes so heavy he could not see.

‘You did the right thing, calling me, Spock,’ McCoy said. ‘You did the right thing. You just sleep now. You’ll be all right.’


	26. Chapter 26

He came back to awareness in a room that was dim and warm, and it took him a moment before realising that he was still in his own quarters. His sleep had been dreamless and so heavy that it was almost as if he had not slept at all. His head ached and his limbs were weighted down.

‘Dr McCoy,’ he murmured before he had half opened his eyes.

‘I’m here, Spock,’ the doctor said in a gruff tone. ‘You’re all right.’

‘I know,’ he said, and McCoy snorted.

‘Don’t you always know?’ he asked. ‘Now, listen, Spock. I need to get to the sick bay. I have duties I have to get to. I’m going to send someone down to sit with you, okay?’

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Spock said meekly. He felt too stultified by sleep and heavy with confusion to argue. He had fought against a willing death, but his mind felt grey.

‘Okay,’ McCoy said again. ‘I’ll be back when you’re properly awake, and I want to have a proper talk with you. Try to rest until then.’

‘Heaton,’ Spock murmured, realising that he must have been asleep for far longer than two hours.

‘Is in our brig, mad as a hornet and twice as ugly,’ McCoy said in a satisfied tone. ‘And we’re on course for Vulcan. Now try to get a little more sleep. You need to get that sedative out of your system before you can start to feel better.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said, feeling the tiredness dragging at his eyelids again. Even the thought of what he must face on Vulcan barely pricked into the heavy need for sleep. He sank down again, further and deeper, until unconsciousness enveloped him.

When he woke again he knew that time had passed and that his sleep had been natural. Dreams had pulled at the edges of his consciousness, trying to rouse him, sending fleeting ripples of panic through his body. He could remember none of the details. Just a sense of unease and threat that had been with him all the time he had slept.

He opened his eyes, aware that he was not alone. Christine Chapel was sitting by the bed, reading, and he lay still, regarding the line of her neck leading up to her tilted head. Her hair was swept up on the top of her head, and she reminded him of a statue. She was so engrossed in her book that she had not noticed his half-open eyes, and was breathing slowly and steadily. Paper scraped as she meditatively turned a page, and her gaze moved to the top and began to flick across the new words. Her lips tightened a little as if she were disconcerted by what she read, and then her face relaxed again.

Spock closed his eyes again, endeavouring to evince no change in his condition. If he let her know that he was awake then she would wish to talk to him. McCoy must have explained why he thought that Spock was in need of watching. What words had he used? Depressed? Suicidal? Perhaps he’d just said,  _I’m worried about Spock_ . That was more likely. He could not have made an accurate assessment of his condition. Spock was not sure himself of his condition.

But then she put the book down and her medical scanner warbled, and Spock blinked his eyes open, knowing that it would tell her the truth about his conscious state. Her smile was like sudden sunshine as he looked up at her.

‘Mr Spock, you’re awake,’ she said.

‘Obviously,’ Spock replied dryly.

He sat up against the pillow, and looking about saw that there was a glass of water placed on the surface by the bed. He picked it up and let the cool water refresh his mouth, then looked at the nurse,  wondering how long she intended to stay now that he was conscious.

‘You may report to Dr McCoy that I am quite all right,’ he said.

‘I may,’ she replied tartly, ‘but I may also stay here with you as ordered, Mr Spock. The doctor also ordered me to give you this,’ she said, holding up a hypo.

Spock eyed the clear liquid in the capsule suspiciously. ‘That is not another sedative?’

‘No, it is not,’ she told him. ‘It is a combination of a couple of drugs which should combat the symptoms of depression and anxiety.’

Spock rested his head back on the pillow and breathed out slowly. There was no logic in refusing the drug, although his instinct was to refuse. He knew that the only way to recover from the psychological legacy of his captivity on Alphonae Prime was to fight his symptoms in any way that he could.

‘May I give this to you, Mr Spock?’ Chapel asked him rather hesitantly.

Spock nodded once.

‘It will take at least three hours for you to start to feel the effects,’ she told him as she pressured the drug through his sleeve and into his upper arm, ‘but it should help.’

Spock nodded again. He did not know how to talk about this with the nurse, or even if he could or should talk about it.

‘Are you aware of our estimated arrival time at Vulcan, Nurse?’ he asked instead.

She smiled. ‘Mr Spock, I didn’t even know we were going to Vulcan,’ she replied. ‘The last I heard we were heading for the Romulan Neutral Zone, and then suddenly the captain diverts the ship and makes a mad dash back for Starbase 73. Dr McCoy has been muttering and banging around in his office but he didn’t tell me  _why_ all this was happening.  He just sent me down here as a matter of urgency to keep an eye on you.  They don’t exactly tell the nurses everything on this ship, I’m afraid,’ she said wryly.

Spock exhaled slowly. Perhaps he would be compelled to talk about this after all. If he did not volunteer the information she was sure to ask.

‘Are you aware of the outcome of the trial on Starbase 73?’ he asked, keeping his gaze focussed on the rich red drapes that covered the wall opposite the foot of his bed.

‘Yes, Mr Spock,’ she said soberly, looking down at her hands instead of trying to encourage him to meet her eyes.

‘It is the captain and Dr McCoy’s belief that the – person – who was acquitted can be retried under Vulcan law,’ he said.

‘I see, Mr Spock,’ she replied, and he flicked his gaze at her very briefly. He got the sense from those few words that she saw it all – not only the legal possibilities of transporting Robert Heaton to Vulcan, but also the disastrous effect that his acquittal and re-arrest and the threat of going through another trial had had on Spock.

‘This must be very hard for you, Mr Spock,’ she said after a while of silence.

He nodded, his lips pressed together.

‘If I can help in any way,’ she began. ‘Well – I would do anything to help you, you know that, Mr Spock. As a nurse and – ’

She flushed and broke off, but Spock understood her meaning well enough. He had been aware of her feelings for him for a long time,  but at this point in time nothing was further from his mind than a romantic relationship.

‘On Vulcan they use the mind meld to help to heal people after this kind of trauma,’ she continued.

Spock looked at her, startled, and she smiled.

‘Oh, I guess you could say I’ve made Vulcan medicine one of my special interests,’ she told him. ‘You are the only non-human we currently have on this ship and there are a lot of differences between human and Vulcan physiology.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Spock said. ‘But – if you are suggesting the use of meld between myself and you, then – ’

‘Well, why not?’ she cut over him. ‘I know I’m no Vulcan healer, Mr Spock, but I am a medical practitioner with a fair bit of experience.’

Spock closed his eyes. ‘ It is – too much,’ he said. ‘I could not expect that of you.’

‘Mr Spock,’ she said in a voice that was very familiar to him. He had heard that voice many times before, just prior to her compelling someone to undertake a course of treatment that was required but unwanted. ‘Dr McCoy was not exactly forthcoming when he sent me down here, but he told me he had very real concerns about your mental state and your safety. Now, as far as I’m aware you have so far refused any meaningful counselling to help with what happened to you on Alphonae Prime. I’m also aware that the prime method of treatment used on Vulcan in this kind of case is direct contact with the sufferer’s mind. It cuts out the awkwardness and misunderstandings of language, and can effect a vast improvement in sufferers. Now, please, let me help you.’

Spock glanced over at his  meditation statue, letting the pulsing of the soft light soothe his thoughts. He had not melded with anyone in a very, very long time. He had been enclosed with his own thoughts since before he had crashed on Alphonae Prime. That was not usually a bother. His thoughts were ordered and logical, and admitting someone else to that place was often a disturbance rather than a relief.

But his thoughts were no longer ordered and logical. They were no longer his ally. More and more his thoughts were becoming a creature to taunt and torment him. But could he let a fragile-minded human into that maelstrom? Surely he could not.

‘Please, Mr Spock,’ she urged him. ‘I don’t want to invade your thoughts. I don’t want to see everything that happened to you. I don’t want to share anything more than what you’re comfortable with. But I want to help.’

Spock regarded his hand, his fingertips that were clean and smooth now,  no longer lined with dirt. The temptation to share in a non-verbal way was very great. Slowly he lifted his hand and touched it lightly to her face, feeling the cool of her skin against the heat of his. And then – there was connection. It was like a falling inward, wordless  and slack. He caught the sense of her concern. Everything that he could feel  in her mind  was bound up in thoughts of him.

He stopped himself from falling too far, instead letting her experience the chaotic emotions that were moving in his own mind. He held her back from memories and images and just let the feelings spread into her thoughts. There were guilt and shame surging like monsters, so strong that she almost retreated. But carefully she caught those thoughts and held them, and he felt her response. He had no reason to be ashamed. He had no cause for guilt.

_ But it was private, _ he thought.  _ I was ripped apart. My privacy was ripped apart. He came to me. Only to me _ .

_ Dominance, _ she thought.  _ Control. Male urges. Satiation. Not you. Him. It was projected, not received. Not about you. It was about him. _

He saw in her mind knowledge that he already knew. How rape was used by men as a method of control and dominance. It need not even be connected with lust. How the youngest male in the social group felt a need to assert himself as a man, felt the need to dominate those beneath him.  How it was not about attraction or sexuality, but just about asserting control.

_ It was not about you _ , chimed in his head again.  _ No fault, no guilt, no shame. _

_ But my urge to violence, _ he thought.  _ My urge to break, to kill, to snap his neck. _

_ Natural. Natural. Anger is natural. You never acted on those thoughts _ .

_ I was afraid. _

The fear blossomed in him suddenly, becoming all consuming. Fear of attack, fear of pain, fear of punishment. Fear of losing himself, of becoming what he had been taught all his life not to be. Loss of control, subject to emotions, to passion. Losing all that he was in the urge to strike and kill.

_ You never acted on those thoughts, _ she thought again.  _ You are safe from attack, pain, punishment. _

_ Anger, dissolution, guilt, shame _ , revolved in his mind.  The thought of being exposed to all of that again on Vulcan. The thought of being stripped bare. The thought of being disbelieved again.

She held him still.  _ Life is preferable to death, _ she thought.  _ Vulcans will not misinterpret your responses. Vulcans will not be swayed by tears.  Life is preferable to death. This too shall pass. _

That very human phrase jolted him out of the seamless connection. He let his hand drop, his mind revolving on the thoughts that had been exchanged. He could not tell if he had been in meld for an hour or a minute, but he felt the damp of  her  tears on his fingertips.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Spock,’ she murmured, her eyes glazed with moisture. ‘I didn’t mean to – ’

‘You – did nothing wrong. Nothing at all,’ Spock replied, rubbing his fingertips together, feeling that water slowly evaporate. As the tears became vapour and lifted up into the air so too did the heaviest of the guilt and shame that had been pressing him down for months. It would take more than a simple meld with an untrained non-Vulcan, but this was another page turned, another step back towards the person that he had been before.

He took in a very deep breath, feeling the oxygen-rich air flood lungs bred to a far more rarefied atmosphere.

‘Thank you, Miss Chapel,’ he said in a rather more steady voice. ‘It is deeply appreciated.’

‘That’s all right, Mr Spock,’ she said, apparently trying to hide the traces of tears in her voice. She stood up very abruptly. ‘I’ll – er – I’ll go tell the doctor that you’re awake. He wanted to have a talk with you, I know.’

‘Thank you, Miss Chapel,’ Spock said again as she walked quickly to the door.

He sat there on his bed for some time after she left, his eyes on the doorway as if he were still seeing the image of her leaving the room, lost in thought.

 


	27. Chapter 27

The air on Vulcan was exquisite in Spock’s lungs after so long in richer atmospheres. It was something akin to tasting a very delicately flavoured fruit after a glut of junk food. He could taste the sand and the heat in his mouth as he breathed in, conjuring a hundred memories of his childhood here. The humans complained about the heat and the thin air, but to Spock it was home.

He was entirely alone. Here was where the fringes of sparse vegetation met the open desert, and here also was a vast spreading boulder, smoothed off by flood waters in an ancient time, and smoothed further by the scouring sand. Spock sat on the boulder with his legs tucked beneath him, letting the heat of the stone rise up into his body and the heat of the sun push down through it. Where his hands rested on the rock the heat radiated into his palms and fingers and up through his wrists, and eased out the lingering traces of pain from his months of hard labour. He had not been so entirely warm in over a year.

The cold on Alphonae Prime felt like a dream in the back of his mind. He remembered the building winter and a damp, frigid atmosphere that settled in his lungs. He remembered waking up in the morning with iron about his neck, wrists, and ankles that had grown cold as he slept, the shock when he moved and a fresh bit of metal touched his skin and seemed to impart all of its cold in one jolt. Then it had felt as if his bones were being slowly turned to ice. His lungs had burnt with damp and sickness. He had no body fat left to insulate himself. The cold had been a persistent thing of which he had felt he would never rid himself.

He turned his hands over and lifted his palms to the sun. On the underneath of his right wrist there was still the smallest of scars from the last of the abrasions that the manacles had left him. It was a persistent thing that McCoy had not yet quite managed to heal. On his back, he knew, there were a few more thin, silvered marks that were resisting the doctor’s treatment. In time, though, they too would be gone. The brand marks were gone entirely, and for that he was thankful.

Beyond this rock the desert spread out in an undulating sea of sand, punctuated irregularly with spires of stone that had been carved into statues by wind-blown sand. Further still in the distance mountains rose, jagged, a dull orange brown that was caught and lit at the edges by the light of the sun. The loss of a few degrees of height would allow the sun to strike those mountains into burnished gold. Within an hour the sun would be touching the peaks, its fire spreading across the horizon, and then the temperature would begin to drop as night inched over the world.

The sound of footsteps behind him did not make Spock turn. He sat still, listening to the rather complaining sounds of a human hefting himself up onto the rock, fighting against an unaccustomed heat and increased gravity.

‘My god, Spock, you could fry eggs on this rock,’ Jim Kirk said as he walked across the great boulder to join the Vulcan.

‘An exaggeration,’ Spock murmured.

‘Maybe,’ Kirk said, but even so he took great care as he sat to not let any exposed skin touch the stone. ‘You looked like the Little Mermaid sitting up here.’

‘I beg your pardon, Captain?’ Spock asked, turning to regard his friend.

‘You didn’t read Hans Christian Andersen as a boy, then?’ Kirk asked. ‘I know you read Alice in Wonderland.’

‘I did,’ Spock nodded, ‘but – ’

‘In Copenhagen – that’s on Earth, in – ’

‘Denmark, yes, I know,’ Spock nodded.

‘There’s a very old statue on a rock in the harbour, of Andersen’s Little Mermaid. You’re sitting just like she sits. But – there the resemblance ends,’ Jim admitted with a smile.

Spock raised an eyebrow. ‘I am quite glad of that,’ he said, glancing down at his legs, which were definitely separate, and did not resemble a fish’s tail.

‘Are you all right, Spock?’ Kirk asked, suddenly serious.

‘Yes, I am quite all right, Jim,’ Spock replied, his eyes back on the distant mountains.

‘Don’t give me that, mister,’ Jim said, not unkindly. ‘You disappeared from your hotel room without a word three hours ago. And talking of hotel rooms, your father called to find out why you weren’t staying with your parents. I didn’t realise how close your home was to ShiKahr. He said they’re only a few minutes out, by shuttle.’

‘That is true,’ Spock nodded. ‘But I – did not want to stay with my parents.’

‘Didn’t want the pressure?’ Kirk asked him sympathetically. ‘Spock, do you intend to see them at all while we’re here?’

Spock began to study his fingernails intently. ‘I have made no plans for my time here beyond the obvious,’ he said.

‘And am I going to have to keep parrying Sarek’s calls, or will you talk to him?’ Jim asked gently.

Spock clenched his hands, and looked up again. ‘I shall call if I must,’ he said.

‘You’ve seemed – better – in the last few days,’ Kirk said rather hesitantly.

‘Yes,’ Spock replied.

‘But you don’t want to talk about it?’

Spock straightened his legs out from underneath him and stood up. Kirk followed him over the undulating surface of the rock and jumped down onto the sand when Spock did.

‘Is it – er – safe out here?’ he asked rather nervously, looking into the desert wastes.

‘The _le-matyas_ will not dare come this close to the city while it is still light, and there are very few other predators that are not afraid of humanoids. If you are alert you will avoid treading on any of the more dangerous invertebrates.’

‘I see,’ Kirk said, sounding unconvinced.

‘I remind you, Jim, that I came out here alone,’ Spock said rather pointedly.

‘Yes, you did,’ Kirk nodded. ‘I know that, Spock. But I was worried about you. Allow me that human privilege.’

‘Worry is not only a human emotion, profitless as it may be,’ Spock admitted.

‘Then you’re worried?’ Kirk asked.

Spock declined to answer. He started walking across the soft blown sand of the desert fringe. He was wearing the right clothing for this; boots that enclosed his feet softly with no gaps to let in the sand, thin leggings in a pale tan colour, and a loose kaftan that shaded his torso from the sun. In contrast, Jim was wearing his Starfleet uniform, and he knew that before long his feet would be hot and uncomfortable, there would be sand in his boots, and if he had neglected to apply sunblock, the back of his neck would be burnt.

He looked down at his wrists and ankles, struck with a forceful recollection of the heavy chains that had sat upon them. Perhaps it was being back on a planet that was doing this to him. There were very few similaries between Vulcan and Alphonae Prime really, but they both stood apart from the _Enterprise_ as places with sunlight, wind, free air and wide horizons. It was good to be home, but a shadow hung on him as he remembered the last soil he had trod and the last sky he had walked beneath.

‘Spock, have you considered visiting a Healer while you’re here?’ Kirk asked.

‘In fact, McCoy insists on it,’ Spock replied rather pensively.

‘You don’t want to see a Healer?’

Spock shook his head. ‘I acknowledge the logical necessity,’ he said, ‘but – such problems are usually treated via meld. Can you understand why it may be difficult?’

His thoughts moved back to the impromptu and vastly beneficial meld with Christine Chapel. That had given him the ability to move on instead of endlessly circling in his own mind. But she had already known all of the facts of the case, and as a human he had been able to shield enough of his own thoughts that she was not privy to the raw memories in his mind, only the effects of those memories. A Vulcan Healer would be entirely different.

‘Yes, I can, Spock,’ Kirk said soberly, increasing his pace a little so he fell into step alongside the Vulcan. ‘But I think you’re strong enough and brave enough to face it. You know that it will be better for you in the long run.’

‘Yes, I do know that,’ Spock nodded. ‘I have made an appointment to see a Healer before the start of the trial. I believe that I will need that – moral support – for want of a better word.’

‘I’m glad, Spock,’ Kirk told him. ‘And there’s me, and Bones, of course. You know we’ll offer you all the support you want. The ship’s here for the duration of the trial thanks to the Vulcan spacedock’s offer of a full check on the exterior hull. You know, somehow I think your father might have had as much to do with that generous offer as he did with the speeding up of Heaton’s warrant and extradition.’

Spock did not respond. He was not sure what to think about the apparent fact that his father had moved heaven and earth in order to have Robert Heaton brought to trial on Vulcan, and to assure that Spock’s friends and colleagues would be able to stand with him during that trial. He had barely spoken to his father outside of that short interlude en route to Babel in over eighteen years. For them now to be brought together because of such a terrible violation of his body and his liberty was something that staggered his mind beyond the ability to process.

But he knew that he would have to speak to his parents at some point. He would, at least, have to speak to his mother. He could not cut her out at this time, since it was almost certain that Sarek had confided in her about the full reasons for Spock’s sudden return to Vulcan. But the thought of speaking to his mother about what had happened pained him almost more than the thought of being forced to testify again in the trial.

He would have far rather that this trial had been scheduled to be held in another city on Vulcan. One on the far side of the planet would have been preferable. If he found it hard to look into the eyes of colleagues aboard the _Enterprise_ , he was sure he would find it a hundred times more difficult were he to encounter anyone from his past on Vulcan – past schoolmates or teachers, or perhaps even T’Pring and her consort. He could not bear the thought of seeing them while he was still in such a weakened and vulnerable condition. Perhaps staying at his parents’ mansion would have been a better choice than the hotel near the centre of ShiKahr. At least he would be sure of seclusion there. But then he would also be sure of his father’s constant presence, and of the questions of both of his parents at a time when he wanted to answer no more questions than was strictly necessary.

‘Spock, do you know where you’re going?’ Kirk asked suddenly.

Spock looked up, surprised to see that they had strayed three hundred yards from the road and were standing in the middle of a cluster of tall, wind-carved pillars of stone. The heat was starting to taper off and the sun was touching the mountains in the distance.

‘No, Captain,’ he said honestly. ‘I was simply walking. It is quite safe out here, but perhaps it would be best if we made our way back towards the road before dusk falls. With no moon, the light goes very suddenly.’

He turned towards the north and they started making their way back towards the road. The mountains were behind them now, and in the distance the lights of the city were beginning to stand out against the failing light of evening. The city started very suddenly, the desert giving way to buildings as if the whole conurbation had been dropped there, a textured disc on the undulating plains of sand. There were no untidy sprawling buildings to bleed city into country as one found on Earth.

‘I vote for going back to the hotel, grabbing something to eat, and then you calling your father, Spock,’ Kirk said in a decisive voice.

‘Is that an order, Captain?’ Spock asked somewhat warily.

Kirk chuckled. ‘I can’t order you to call your father, Spock, but I really think that you should, and the sooner you get it over with the better. I can’t think of anyone who could have pulled that many strings to get a warrant out on Heaton before he left the star base. If it weren’t for Sarek that bastard would be back on Alphonae Prime and you’d be left without any kind of resolution.’

‘We are still not certain that the resolution will be attained,’ Spock reminded him.

‘I am,’ Kirk said firmly. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it, there’s still a lot of ugly prejudice in humans, especially against Vulcans. That boy was tried with a human judge and a human jury, and he used everything in his arsenal to turn their sympathy towards him and against you. You need someone with a delicate understanding of the Vulcan way – and that’s what you’ll get here. I don’t know that I’d want a Vulcan justice system for everything, Spock, but it’s what we need here. It’s what _you_ need.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said, looking ahead to the lines of the buildings in the city. It was all so terribly familiar that it was like looking in the mirror. It took no effort to gaze upon ShiKahr. It had changed very little in the time that he had been away.

He steeled himself, making up his mind that he would contact his parents as Jim had told him to. In fact, it would be best to see them in person. It was true that Sarek had gone far beyond the call of logic in order to secure justice for his son, and it would be reprehensible were he not to acknowledge that in some way. A large amount of Vulcan family relations was based on courtesy, and it would be of no help to him to appear discourteous to his father now. It would be hard, but what was not hard at the moment?

 


	28. Chapter 28

Kirk had asked Spock more than once if he wanted him to accompany him to his parents’ house, but Spock had refused each time. He had set off from the city at dawn, clad in light clothes and sand-proof boots, determined to walk across the raw edges of the desert to his childhood home rather than taking a skimmer. He was not entirely sure why he had chosen to walk. Perhaps it was something as simple as delaying the moment of contact until the last possible minute. But that idea had no logic to it, because he could simply have deferred his departure until five minutes before his arranged arrival time, and stepped into a skimmer and crossed the miles so swiftly that the rock and sand beneath him would have been a blur. Instead he had risen well before his preferred hour, packed water and a small amount of food, and stepped out into the pre-dawn cool so that he could spend five or more hours on a journey that could be made in as many minutes.

Perhaps it was a penance, or a pilgrimage. Those ideas were just as illogical, but they seemed to settle more comfortably in the Vulcan’s mind. He recalled many such trips out into the desert as a child, and later as a troubled teenager, very often without notifying his parents as to his intentions. Vulcans had a history of using the desert as a testing ground. He had survived his Kahs-wan in land like this, and proved his fitness to move forward into Vulcan adulthood. He had lost his beloved _sehlat_ at that time.

_I-Chaya..._

He had not thought about the _sehlat_ in a long time, and he allowed himself a moment of grief. It was considered a rite of passage in many cultures for a child to endure the death of a pet, but death had never become easier.

Spock fixed his eyes on the horizon, and carried on walking. The sun was strong overhead now and he could see the walls of his parents’ house appearing against the rising hills behind. Perhaps this was penance. Perhaps in arriving at Sarek’s door dusty and hot and wearied from the desert he would feel that he had in some way atoned for the shame that he also brought to the door.

 _Shame._ He knew that any person he spoke to about this would protest that he should not feel shame; that he had no reason to feel shame; that shame should be lodged in the attacker’s mind, not the victim's. But still, the shame was there. He felt as if he would walk into his parents’ home naked and besmirched, and their pity – or perhaps his mother’s pity and his father’s disgust – would only confirm his shame.

But now he was here. He was pushing open the gate with a dusty hand and walking up the path to the front door. His parents were expecting him. Perhaps his mother was even looking out of the window to see him arrive. But when he looked he could see no face at any of the narrow windows, narrow to keep the desert heat from billowing into the house in the day and the cold from infiltrating at night.

He stepped up to the door and raised his palm to the chime. His mother must have been watching for him, because the door swung inwards instantly, and Spock looked up to see his mother’s face, her eyes wide with the pity that he had been dreading.

He stepped through the door and she closed it very quickly behind him, but as soon as they were assured of privacy she reached up to tighten her arms about him. Her voice was muffed by his clothes as she said, ‘Oh, Spock. Oh, my baby...’

‘Mother,’ Spock murmured, but she only held him more tightly, her emotions spilling over into his mind and pushing at his poorly maintained shields. To his horror he felt moisture starting at the corners of his eyes, and he pushed his face into her shoulder, trying to control the sudden racking urge to sob.

‘Oh, Spock,’ she said again, pulling away from him.

Spock tried to turn his face away, but she caught his expression, and stroked a hand down his cheek.

‘Spock, my poor boy.’

‘Do not let Sarek see me like this,’ Spock pleaded. Although he was holding back tears, he felt as if he were about to break.

‘Your father is running a little late at a council meeting,’ she said, pushing as much control into her own voice as he was trying to exercise in his. ‘He isn’t here yet.’

Spock felt the relief surge in him, and he stumbled further forward into the house, looking left and right, unsure of where to go. His mother put her hand on his arm and led him into the sitting room, where a couple of low and stylish couches were arranged around a natural wood coffee table. He sank down on the seat and his mother sat beside him, putting her arms around him again.

‘Mother,’ Spock said again in a stronger tone of protest. He did not know how to keep his shields in place against this constant barrage of feeling.

‘I’m sorry, Spock,’ she said, looking him up and down, seeming to be trying to see every part of him and judge how he was. ‘Oh, Spock, you’re so thin. It must have been such a terrible, terrible – ’

‘Yes,’ Spock cut across in a low voice. ‘Yes. I – do not wish to speak of it.’

‘You never would let yourself cry, even as a little boy,’ she said sadly, her eyes not leaving his face. ‘Even as a five year old you would stand there, bruised maybe, or bruised inside after those – _bullies_ – had gotten to you, and you would not cry.’

‘Mother, it is not our way,’ Spock insisted. ‘You are aware of that. You _do_ know that.’

‘Yes, I do know that,’ she said, smiling through her own tears. She took his hand, turned it over, catching sight of the scar on his wrist that was reddened with desert dust. ‘But I _hated_ those children for doing that to you. I thought I would never have cause to hate anyone more, but how I felt then, when you came to me at five, holding everything back inside, is nothing – _nothing –_ to how I hate the men who did this to you. I would see them flayed alive.’

‘Mother!’ Spock said, shocked at the vehemence of her tone. She had always counselled him to repay violence with peace, taunts with logic.

‘No, Spock,’ she said. ‘I won’t apologise for that. The only thing that I regret about the Vulcan justice system is that they outlawed corporal punishment so long ago.’

Spock shook his head slowly. In some way this helped. Despite his own flashing urges to break Robert Heaton’s neck, to hear his own mother advocate something that was so utterly against the ethics of any civilised society was to shock him into realising how wrong that would be.

‘Mother, would you have them whipped for whipping me?’ he asked. ‘Would you starve them for starving me? Would you – ’

No. He could not say it. He could not form the word _rape_ in front of his mother. Perhaps he would never speak that word to her.

‘Yes,’ she said in a voice like brittle ice.

‘Mother, please,’ Spock said.

She smiled and took his hands again. ‘I am sorry, Spock. You will have to forgive your flawed human mother for her anger at anyone who could hurt her son.’

Spock favoured her with the smallest of smiles. ‘Vengeance has its appeal,’ he admitted. ‘But ultimately that would be a betrayal of everything that I have learnt to be. This is our way of life, Mother. For me to betray that by exacting physical harm on one who harmed me would be the worst violation of my self of all.’

She looked down at his hands, turning them over in his, staying silent as if she did not wish to continue to contradict him aloud.

‘Spock – surely you didn’t walk here?’ she asked suddenly, rubbing some of the dust from his fingers.

Spock inclined his head. ‘I did,’ he said.

‘ _That’s_ why I didn’t hear you arrive.’ She leant forward and kissed his dark crown of hair. ‘Only my son would walk miles through the morning heat rather than choosing the logical alternative of hiring a skimmer or taking a cab. Did you enjoy your walk, Spock?’

Spock lifted an eyebrow. ‘I did,’ he realised. He had not thought about it, but it had been good. He had had a chance to think and a chance to unwind in the open desert air that he never would have got by sitting in the hotel for hours and then spending a few minutes in a skimmer.

‘And are your pockets full of plants and geological samples to show me?’ she asked with a mischievous smile.

Spock shook his head gravely. ‘Not this time, mother,’ he said.

He turned sharply at the sound of the door opening in the hall. He had just begun to relax. They had just managed to turn their talk away from what had happened and on to other things. But now Sarek was here. He could _feel_ him, feel the presence of his mind like a broad and heavy thing filling the house.

‘That’s your father,’ his mother said unnecessarily, getting to her feet.

Spock stood too, locking his hands behind his back and standing with his legs a little apart as if he were in line on the ship, waiting for the captain’s inspection. When Sarek walked into the room he stood very still, waiting for his father to speak. He kept his head upright, not meeting his father’s eyes directly but refusing to drop his head or look away.

Sarek stood in the doorway for a moment, his gaze travelling over his son. He reminded Spock of a bird of prey when he looked like that, and he instantly felt small and vulnerable. There was no logic to the feeling, but it was there.

‘Spock,’ Sarek said simply.

Spock inclined his head, and then said, ‘Sarek, I must express my gratitude for all that you have done.’

‘It is illogical to offer thanks when the service was quite necessary,’ his father replied, and Amanda said softly, ‘ _Sarek_.’

The corners of Sarek’s mouth tightened in the hint of an apologetic smile.

‘I accept your profession of gratitude,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘Have you been in the house for long, Spock?’

‘Eleven point seven three minutes,’ Spock said automatically, and Sarek murmured, ‘Terran standard.’

Spock closed his eyes briefly. Was this how it was to be?

Amanda looked between father and son and then said in a falsely bright voice, ‘I should go see that the sprinklers are working properly in the rose garden. One of them was a little blocked this morning.’ Then she added pointedly, ‘Sarek, your son walked here from the city.’

As she left the room she said in an undertone, ‘Go easy on him, Sarek.’

Spock pretended he had not heard. Sarek watched his wife leave the room and then turned back to his son.

‘Spock, is it true that you walked here?’ he asked, giving Spock another appraising look. Spock could read neither approval nor disapproval in his face.

‘I did,’ Spock nodded.

‘You may use the main bathroom,’ Sarek said. ‘When you return I will have arranged refreshment.’

‘Of course,’ Spock said, understanding suddenly that his mother had mentioned his walk so that Sarek would be forced to follow the proper custom and offer due hospitality to his son. There were rituals that had to be followed when one welcomed a visitor in from the desert, and the first of those was offering them the chance to clean themselves of dust.

He left the room to find the peace of the bathroom, where he washed his hands and face in cool water and brushed the dust from his clothes. Then he returned to the sitting room to find that Sarek had shaded the windows and put out a pitcher of water and a platter of fresh fruit on the table.

‘Sit, eat, and refresh yourself,’ Sarek said in the ritual way.

Spock sat and poured himself a glass of water, but he could not make himself eat. He took a bite of one fruit but it felt like rock in his throat as he tried to swallow, so he returned the fruit to the plate and concentrated instead on sipping the water slowly to cool his body and rehydrate his tissues.

Sarek sat in silence. After some time Spock said, ‘Do you intend to speak at all?’

He regretted those words instantly. If sitting in silence was awkward, he was sure that speaking would be a hundred times more so.

‘We expected you to come to the house to stay, rather than take a hotel in the city,’ Sarek said after another moment’s silence.

‘The hotel was the most convenient,’ Spock said rather lamely. ‘My captain is also staying with me.’

‘It takes five point two minutes – Terran standard – to reach the city from here,’ Sarek reminded him. ‘And we have guest suites.’

‘Nevertheless, we are staying at the hotel,’ Spock said.

Sarek sat in silence again. The platter of fruit lay untouched. Spock sipped water again, and put the glass down noiselessly.

‘My son, I do not know what to say, so I am – skirting the issue – with meaningless utterances,’ Sarek said suddenly.

Spock’s head jerked up in surprise. Sarek was sitting very still on the couch, his hands clasped before him, his back straight. He was looking at his son no more than Spock was looking at him, but Spock felt suddenly as if a layer had been peeled away or a shell removed, and he was more vulnerable than he was before. Sarek was looking at him as one who had been enslaved and raped, and Spock had no more idea of what to say than Sarek did.

‘There is little to say,’ Spock responded finally.

‘You have suffered greatly,’ Sarek said.

‘I am healing,’ Spock replied.

Now Sarek did turn to look at Spock, taking in the thinness of his face and hands, no doubt noticing the smallest traces of the scars that McCoy had been working so hard to remove. Perhaps the evidence was there in other things; in the way Spock sometimes moved with a degree of awkwardness because of the occasional pain in his joints from what McCoy had told him was a form of arthritis which would take time to heal. It was there when he found himself with posture that was slumped slightly as a relic of months of working in harness or carrying impossibly heavy loads. Perhaps Sarek could see the last traces of that hunted look that Spock had seen when he had first looked in a mirror on his return to the ship. He certainly felt hunted now. He could feel the echoes of the injuries that he dared not mention, the tearing and bruising that Master Robert had left him with time after time, and rivulets of shame ran through his mind.

‘Was there nothing you could do?’ Sarek asked suddenly.

Spock closed his eyes, feeling as if he were crumpling inside.

‘Do you not believe that if there was, I would have done it?’ he asked. ‘My priority was to stay alive.’

‘I know,’ Sarek said, sounding curiously human. After a moment he repeated, ‘I know, my son. I am sorry. I had been cautioned against – ’

‘Cautioned?’ Spock asked, startled.

‘Your esteemed physician, McCoy, took it upon himself to renew our acquaintance,’ Sarek replied rather dryly.

Spock nodded. Why had he not expected that? McCoy was very much like a mother hen or a _le-matya_ who had just given birth at the moment.

‘But you still saw fit to ask me that question,’ Spock said relentlessly.

‘Even your father can make mistakes, Spock,’ Sarek reminded him gently. ‘Dare I say it, even your father can be prey to emotion at some – extreme – times. This is one such time. I have experienced such – _anger –_ ’

Despite himself, Spock flinched. Sarek had never admitted to such a thing in front of his son before, and he knew that Sarek’s anger would be a formidable thing. It was terrible to know that his experience had provoked Sarek to such emotions. The memories flashed over him again, being held, chained, ripped into by that boy, and he struggled to quell the closing down of his vision that heralded an attack of panic. It was as he had feared. He felt utterly naked in front of his father. He had no defences left.

He fought the clenching panic and gradually pushed it away.

‘I should not have brought my shame to this house,’ he said, preparing to stand up.

Sarek’s hand gripped about his wrist to stop him moving, reminding him so forcefully of a manacle that another wave of panic pushed through his mind. His father loosened his hold abruptly, as if he had sensed that panic, then said, ‘You have brought no shame to this house, my son. There is _no_ shame for the victim – only for the perpetrator. I will see that the perpetrator receives all that is due to him under our system of law.’

His hand was still loosely around Spock’s wrist, and Spock could feel the pulse of his blood in his fingertips and the cool of his skin against Spock’s skin that had been heated by his long walk. A sudden memory came to him of being very small and being folded against his father’s chest, and feeling that he was the largest and safest thing in the world. How he wished that he could reclaim that place now.

‘I offer my thanks, Sarek,’ he said in a rather formal voice. He could not think how to form any other words.

Sarek’s hand tightened again on his wrist, and Spock was suddenly assailed with a powerful sense of longing and regret from his father’s mind, as if Sarek too was remembering the small child that he could no longer hold and protect from the world. There was a wall now that could not be breached, no matter what the circumstances were. For Sarek to hold his son would be an impossibility.

‘You will receive justice,’ Sarek said in a such a voice that Spock did not doubt it for a moment.

Spock did not reply. He sat very still with his eyes on the table before him, and the fruit that had barely been touched. He could feel Master Robert all over him, in him, defiling him, making him base and unclean. The memories were so strong they seemed to overwhelm his sight, his hearing. They made his skin crawl.

‘Forgive me,’ he said in something approaching a whisper.

Sarek stiffened as if he had received an electric shock. ‘I cannot forgive you when you have done nothing wrong,’ he said. ‘But if I could offer you forgiveness, I would.’

 


	29. Chapter 29

[A.N. This one gets a bit more graphic again. Sorry. And I will try to get to reviews soon - thank you for reviewing. I've been concentrating on writing.]

One thing that Spock could be thankful for was that Vulcan justice was logical and discreet. There was so little market for gossip on the planet that the only news agencies were small and refined, and dealt with imparting information of actual relevance rather than titillating interest. The trial was to be held in a closed court, since there was no public interest in the case, and so only those directly involved would be privy to the details of the case. Those present would not include journalists, despite the interest of non-Vulcans in a case focussed on the half-human son of the Vulcan ambassador, and the first officer of the flagship of the fleet.

Still, the first morning of the trial was – difficult – to say the least. Although Kirk was at his side, and would not hear of leaving, he felt entirely alone as he walked into the small and secluded trial room. The room itself was ancient, with thick walls of desert stone that kept the temperature almost too cool. A panel of Vulcans sat in an arc on the far side of the room, traditionally robed and hooded so that it was difficult at first glance to tell which were male and which female. The panel did not deliberately advertise their identities. At the centre of the panel was a Vulcan matriarch, venerable and aged, and although her hair was still black in the main her face was so creased that her skin seemed to be made of bark.

Spock took his place opposite the panel, standing very rigidly in his Starfleet dress uniform. He knew the uniform might offend some, those old stalwarts who still believed that Starfleet was an instrument of force and war, but it was his right to stand in his uniform, and it felt like armour.

An aide stepped forward and tied a light, earth-leaf green sash about his waist, marking him out as the claimant. As the defendant, Robert Heaton would have a sash of black.

Kirk was standing to his left, as was his privilege as friend and supporter of the claimant, and was just as rigid as Spock was in his own braided and decorated dress uniform. On his right was a lawyer for the prosecution, a stalwart and mature Vulcan lady who had proved herself quite adept and sympathetic despite having never taken on a case of this nature, the crime being almost unheard of on Vulcan outside of the special circumstances of _pon far_ _r_. Spock was grateful that this woman would be between himself and Robert Heaton, when the defendant was led in to take his place on the other side of the courtroom. There were no special arrangements here to separate him from the sight of his attacker, since defendants were expected to be able to control their reactions with logic. All he had was his lawyer, and Jim’s presence, and that would have to do.

The last time he had seen Robert Heaton had been in the _Enterprise_ brig, severely bruised and downcast. Now he was entirely healed and looked nervous but arrogant as he walked into the court flanked by two Vulcans and a human that Spock assumed was his lawyer. He had no supporter with him, and Spock found himself glad of that.

‘They advised him to take a Vulcan advocate as lawyer but he refused and said he’d only take human,’ Kirk murmured close to Spock’s ear. ‘I think that can only be to our advantage.’

Spock nodded but did not speak. After a momentary glance to his right he did not look at Robert Heaton any more. He had been for two sessions with a Vulcan Healer so far and his reactions were far more controlled than they had been, but he knew that the circumstances of this trial would be likely to reopen all of his mental wounds.

He sat as the court sat, his hands clenched at his sides, aware that very soon the questioning would begin.

The matriarch at the centre of the curve of the panel stood, as did he and Robert Heaton, so that they were the only ones standing in the room apart from various ushers and bearers. The bearers at either side of the court shook frames of bells to demand silence. All noise died away, and she spoke.

‘S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skon, heir to the estate of Sarek on this world of Vulcan, thou dost stand before me, claimant,’ she said, her language ancient and far from the tongue spoken by most in this area of the planet.

Spock inclined his head. ‘I do, _Ans’hi_ T’Par,’ he said, keeping his voice clear and audible.

‘Robert William Heaton, son of David Heaton, heir to the farm Wood’s End, on the planet Alphonae Prime, thou dost stand before me, accused.’

Spock kept his eyes rigidly on T’Par, but after a moment of hesitation he heard Robert Heaton reply, ‘I do, _Ans’hi_ T’Par,’ and was perversely pleased to hear that his voice did not have Spock’s strength.

‘S’chn T’gai Spock, thou dost accuse this Robert Heaton of multiple counts of physical harm upon thy person, and of multiple counts of rape upon thy person, whilst thou were held in slavery on the planet Alphonae Prime,’ the matriarch continued.

There was a slight murmur amongst the panel, and the various people in attendance behind the defendant and claimant. Although it was given out that a trial was to be held the actual charges were not usually known by anyone but those directly involved until the moment that they were spoken in court, so as to avoid any hint of prejudice. Spock closed his eyes. Even amongst the emotionally stoic Vulcans, the word _rape_ caused a ripple of shock. He heard the attendants ring their bells for silence. Kirk touched a hand to his arm, and Spock opened his eyes again, forcing himself to speak.

‘I do, _Ans’hi_ T’Par,’ he said, and this time his voice was not entirely steady.

Kirk touched his arm again, and he was grateful of the influx of reassuring emotions that reached him through that touch.

‘The claimant and the defendant may sit,’ T’Par said.

Spock sank gratefully back into his seat. For the moment his lawyer, T’Ansa, would take control of proceedings, while the rest of the formalities were got out of the way.

He had thought that the trial he had participated in on Starbase 73 had been hard, but it was nothing to this. There he had heard only pertinent questions and his replies had been made in a room on his own, only to his liaison on the viewing screen before him. Now he was in a room which must contain around fifty people, preparing to speak candidly and in detail about one of the most horrifying events of his life.

‘Commander Spock, you have been asked to recount the first time the rape occurred,’ his lawyer murmured to him, and Spock realised that he had been far from paying attention to what was going on.

He stood, very aware of everyone around him, of the faces of the panel shaded by their hoods, of Robert Heaton and his human lawyer across the aisle, of the many people behind him waiting to hear what he had to say. This was hard. He had to push aside his emotions in the matter and simply speak, but this was so hard.

‘I had been held in slavery for two months,’ he said. ‘T’Ansa has provided you with details of my capture and enslavement.’ He realised that he was speaking too quietly, and he cleared his throat, determined to speak clearly and rationally. ‘Slaves were often flogged as punishment for minor misdemeanours. To facilitate this the victim was attached to an upright board, with the hands chained to a ring above the head. The flogging would usually take place at noon, and one would be left there until morning, when one was released for work. The victim was not allowed food, but was given water at nightfall.’

‘Commander Spock, you are generalising,’ T’Par said without emotion. ‘I have asked you for specifics.’

‘Yes, _Ans’hi_ T’Par,’ Spock said obediently. ‘I had been flogged that day for questioning an order. I cannot tell you the precise date, since I had lost track of standard stardates at that time. I was left chained to the flogging board. That evening, after dark, Robert Heaton was sent to give me water. He was with a group of six friends, all of similar ages.’

‘The defendant’s age is eighteen Earth years?’ T’Par asked, and the human lawyer gave an affirmative. ‘And he is considered an adult on his planet of residence, Alphonae Prime?’

‘Yes, he is,’ the human lawyer confirmed.

‘Continue, Spock,’ T’Par said with a nod.

‘I believe they had been consuming alcohol and chewing a native stimulant,’ Spock said.

‘This is your belief?’ T’Par interrupted.

‘I smelt alcohol, and they carried bottles of alcohol. I also smelt the honey leaf, which is the stimulant, and saw one of the attackers place some in his mouth,’ Spock said.

‘Very well,’ T’Par nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Master Robert – that is to say, Robert Heaton – brought a bucket and let me drink. Then – ’

Spock paused, and he felt Kirk’s hand touch his back, very softly, just enough to impart a sense of companionship.

Spock cleared his throat again. ‘One of Robert Heaton’s friendsasked, _H_ _ave you ever fucked a man before?_ He – the friend – suggested that it was a means of control, of keeping slaves in their place. When I sensed the threat was real I tried to rationalise with them, and one of them struck me. I became – quite alarmed. I – pleaded – for them to leave me alone, and they laughed. Master Robert – Robert Heaton – told me that if I made a noise he would kill me.’

Spock swallowed, clenching his hands on the top of the rail before him. He looked down, saw a glass of water, and took a sip. Kirk murmured, ‘Are you all right, Spock?’

He straightened himself again, trying to steady himself, not replying to his captain.

‘They removed my clothing, cutting the underwear with a knife. Robert Heaton first, and then his friends – touched me intimately.’ As T’Par opened her mouth to ask for clarification he expanded, ‘They touched my genitals. I had been subject to a piercing there to prevent promiscuity, and they used it to impart pain. They – then forced my legs apart. One of them took a bottle and inserted the neck into – my anus, with some force – causing considerable pain. But – the instigator said, _D_ _on’t play with him. Fuck him. Show him you own him_. He – his exact words were, _I’ll give it to him so hard he won’t know if he’s loving it or hating it._ ’

Spock stopped again, taking in a steadying breath, while the _Ans’hi_ T’Par regarded him without reaction. He glanced sidewards at Kirk, and Jim gave him a reassuring nod, although his face was blanched at Spock’s testimony.

‘And then – he raped me,’ Spock said.

A silence seemed to fall. After a moment T’Par said in a steady voice, ‘You must define for the court the nature of this attack.’

He kept his eyes very firmly on the spot just above her head, and said, ‘He penetrated me anally, repeatedly and forcefully, with his erect penis, until ejaculation occurred. When he stepped back,Robert Heaton took his place and performed the same actions. They both inflicted – great pain.’

‘Robert Heaton, this Robert Heaton stood here, penetrated you anally, repeatedly and forcefully, with his erect penis, until ejaculation occurred,’ T’Par said relentlessly.

‘Yes, he did,’ Spock nodded. He felt as if he could hardly see, as if he were floating somewhere beyond this room.

‘And then – ’ T’Par prompted him.

Spock clenched hard at the rail again. ‘I – continued to ask them to stop, but they would not. Theywere giving each other verbal encouragement. Each one – performed rape as I have described it. They pushed the bottle into me again, and brought it out to show me my blood and – other fluids – on the neck. They inserted the bottle into my mouth and ordered me to clean it. When they were able they repeated their actions of rape, in the same manner as before. I – believe that in all there were thirteen separate instances. Robert Heaton raped me twice that evening. He attempted a third time, but – could not sustain an erection. Some time after his failure they left me.’

The silence seemed to expand and fill the room. Spock could feel the mental emanations of shock from the Vulcans present at his description of what had happened. His legs seemed to have lost all strength. Without asking for permission, he sat, descending so fast onto the chair that there was an audible thump. And then his lawyer T’Ansa stood and said, ‘ _Ans’hi_ T’Par, I request that my client be allowed to leave the room for a short recess.’

Spock’s ears seemed to be singing, and he did not hear what T’Par said, but he felt Jim’s hand on his arm, and he stood unsteadily.

‘Two hours, Spock,’ Jim murmured to him as he walked him out of the room.

‘I – I beg your pardon?’ Spock asked.

‘They’ve given you a two hour recess,’ he told him.

The door was opened by a silent attendant, and he walked through. As the door closed he heard an explosion of quiet murmuring from inside, and simultaneously felt the sting of a hypo at his arm.

‘My god, Spock, what did they do to you?’ McCoy asked in a low, rough voice, pushing him to sit down on a stone bench in the corridor, crouching down before him to look at him intently as his medical scanner whirred. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

‘They asked him to recount that – first time,’ Kirk said somewhat awkwardly, in a hushed voice.

The door opened behind them again, and T’Ansa swept out into the corridor. She glanced briefly at the doctor and then crouched beside him in front of Spock.

‘You gave courageous and valid testimony,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I felt a large amount of sympathy in the panel.’

She reached her hand up to Spock’s face. Instinctively he lifted his own hand to stop her, but then he relented and dropped his hand to his lap. Her fingertips touched his forehead, and he felt the lightest of mental touches as the lawyer assured herself of his condition.

‘I would suggest you use this time to meditate,’ she said. ‘It is important that you can conduct yourself adequately in the trial room. You are aware that you will have to recount each incident, and be able to take questions on the matter. This trial will take a number of days.’

‘Yes,’ Spock said somewhat dazedly.

‘The meditation chambers are situated on the south side of the building,’ she continued.

‘Thank you, we’ll find them,’ McCoy said quickly. He nudged at Spock’s arm. ‘Come on, Spock. She’s right. You need this time.’

‘Yes,’ Spock murmured. He stood with McCoy’s hand on his arm. The doctor leaned in to say, ‘You did really well, Spock. You got through that. You’ll get through the rest.’

He walked quietly with his friends on either side of him, trying hard to draw upon the disciplines and methods that he had been through with his Healer before the trial began. It was absolutely imperative that he was able to continue, no matter how hard. As his lawyer had said, there would be some days to go for the trial to run its course, and he could not allow the trial to collapse on his account.

 


	30. Chapter 30

In the hotel room, Spock did not know which way to turn. He had spent his time in meditation and come back into the court room after the prescribed two hours, and faced closer questioning on that first incidence from both his own lawyer and the judge. He listened and responded to quiet but probing questions from the members of the panel, and found himself talking of that night in far more detail than he had ever wanted to, standing behind the rail with only the presence of his stoical lawyer and Jim’s compassion to carry him through.

Then he had faced the accusatory and hostile questions of Robert Heaton’s human lawyer, a man who sought to find any excuse that would prove his client not responsible for his actions. He found himself accused of lying or of encouraging his attackers, of waiting to say no until it was too late. When McCoy was called to give the evidence of his medical examinations the panel and audience became hushed, and Spock sat and listened to the detailed descriptions of the damage he had sustained from that first attack.

At last the court had adjourned for the day, and rather than walk back Kirk had taken the decision to call a cab which returned them to their hotel in under a minute of travelling time.

‘No arguments, Spock,’ Kirk had said. ‘You’re exhausted, and you don’t need to walk through the city when you can sit down and ride.’

So he had sat in the cab with Kirk on one side and McCoy on the other, his ever present medical scanner out and warbling.

‘I want you to rest, Spock,’ was McCoy’s parting instruction. ‘There is nothing you need to be doing right now, and I want you to rest and meditate and look after yourself.’

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Spock nodded without a hint of dissent, and McCoy looked at him suspiciously.

‘Now, are you sure you don’t need me to stay down here?’ he asked.

‘I am quite certain,’ Spock replied. He glanced at Jim, and his captain nodded.

‘You’re only a transport away if you’re needed, Bones,’ he said, ‘And I promise you I’ll make that call if I need to.’

As soon as they were alone Kirk turned to the Vulcan with his hands spread away from his body, a distraught look on his face.

‘Spock,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Spock, I knew the bare facts of what happened, but I never – I just didn’t imagine that it’d been so – ’

‘I would not wish you to imagine it,’ Spock said in a rather brittle voice. He turned away from the captain and walked over to the window, looking out into the street below where ordinary people made their way to and fro.

‘No, I know, Spock,’ Kirk said softly. ‘I know.’

He came to stand just behind the Vulcan, putting a hand lightly on his shoulder. Spock did not shrug it away. He was overwhelmed by the powerful urge to be held like a child. He wished his mother were here just as much as he was glad that she was not.

Perhaps Kirk sensed something through the touch, attuned as his mind often was to Spock’s. He reached around him to press the close button on the blinds and then without asking permission, which would force Spock to be stoic and refuse, he put his arms firmly around the Vulcan’s shoulders, and held him as tightly as one would hold an infant just woken from a nightmare.

‘This, Spock,’ he said after a while, tightening his hold and then loosening again. The movement was like a pulse. ‘ _This_ is what matters. There are people who love you, as a child, as a brother, as a friend. I would do _anything_ to be able to go back and undo what was done to you. So would Bones. So would your mother and father. _This_ is what matters, not some farm punk who would act in the way those kids did that night. He will get what is coming to him, and you will come through this and out the other side.’

Spock closed his eyes, standing very still, not lifting his arms to reciprocate the hug but allowing himself the benefit of that tight, strong hold. He knew that it was true that Jim, as his friend, would do almost anything to protect him. But he had not been there. He just had not been there. No one had been there, and the only scrap of human compassion he had found in that place had been in a woman who had treated him like an injured animal. As for the rest, he had been brutalised, dehumanised – for want of a better word, and treated far worse than a person would treat the animals under their control. And Jim had not been there. No one had been there.

He felt himself losing control. A sob was reaching up into his throat. His eyes burned. He wanted to press his hand over his mouth but his arms were pinioned to his sides by Jim’s enveloping hug. He could not move, and there was some kind of catastrophic failure about to take place inside him. A moan escaped his lips, and Jim’s arms tightened again, the human’s emotions threatening to flood into Spock’s through the contact.

He dug deep into his resources, taking that desperate need to disintegrate inside and trying to rationalise it. He mentally listed the chemicals and hormones that provoked such reactions in normal Vulcan or human bodies. He visualised the precise portion of the brain that dealt with post traumatic stress, and tried to assert those areas instead that helped him to exert control and rationality. He pulled himself back with great effort from the brink of the catastrophe that had threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Spock, it’s all right to cry,’ Jim said softly.

Spock swallowed hard. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not.’

He stiffened himself just enough that Kirk understood that he wished to be released from his hold. The captain stepped back from him and gave him space. Spock moved stiffly to a chair and sat in silence, steepling his fingers in front of his face and trying to bring calm and discipline back into his mind.

‘How about something to eat?’ Kirk said after a respectable length of time. ‘I could have food ordered to the room?’

Spock shook his head, lowering his hands to his knees.

‘I am not hungry,’ he said.

‘Bones made you promise to look after yourself,’ Jim reminded him with a concerned smile.

‘That does not extend to eating when one is not hungry,’ Spock replied.

‘Spock,’ Kirk began again, and then shrugged. ‘Well, I’m not Bones and I’m not your mother. I can’t force you to eat. Do you mind if I go out and get something?’

‘Not at all,’ Spock said.

He had sensed that the captain might want some time alone after the strain of the day. The knowledge that they shared after the trial today was like a prickling unseen impediment in the room, and neither knew quite how to manoeuvre around it.

Once the captain was gone he went into his room and lay down on the bed in there, staring at the ceiling above him. He felt so tired, but there was also the Vulcan version of adrenalin coursing through his body. He had spent all day in the primitive state of being ready to run, with nothing to run from. Finally he got up and  wrote a note for his captain, then  left the hotel room. The corridors and lobby were quiet and dimly lit, and he gained no more than cursory glances from those people that he passed. He walked out into the street, where heat stored during the day shimmered up from the stone flagstones, warming the air around him. Night had fallen, and the streets were lit subtly with lamps. With crime almost non-existent on Vulcan there was no drive for brightly lit streets, and the sanctity of night was preserved. He walked away from the centre of the city in soft-soled boots that made no noise on the stone pavements.

After some time the buildings grew lower, and then abruptly they stopped. He passed the city boundary and stepped out again into the desert, just as he had the other day when Kirk had found him on the rock and likened him to the Little Mermaid. He recalled reading that story as a boy, how the mermaid had wanted so much to become human that she had given up her fishy tail, so that walking on the ground was like walking on knives. Those stories had always seemed so illogical to him, but beautiful, and always so sad. He had felt for the mermaid who had been torn between what she was and what she wished to be.

Some way out from the city he reached that stone again and climbed up onto its wide, warm body and sat there under the sky. When he looked back the buildings of the city  showed small blotches of light  from every window , so that the entire place looked like a decorative bauble  suspended from the night . Shuttles moved in and out among the buildings, and their trails of light streaked in his vision.

He turned away from the city and looked out instead into the endless desert, where there was no light at all. No one lived in that direction, towards the far away mountains  that were invisible but for the fact that they blotted out the stars . There was nothing for people out there. No water. No food. Animals lived there, but only by the most basic subsistence.

He lay back on the warmth of the rock and looked up toward the sky. It was almost utterly black, pricked with the lights of stars that were distorted only by the heat haze in the atmosphere. Each one burned with a solitary brilliance. There was Sol. There was Alphonae...

There had been a past of slavery on Vulcan, he knew, just as there had been on Earth. It had been so long ago that the Vulcan inhabitants could comfortably distance it from their tribal memory, unlike the more recent organised instances of it on Earth, which were still only four hundred years in the past. The most recent small pockets had been abolished as late as the closing years of the twenty-first century. But on Vulcan slavery pre-dated Surak, and there was no race, caste, or nation which felt any particular guilt for what was done so long ago. He was certain that the slavery practised here, and in Earth’s past, had been just as brutal as that which he had encountered on Alphonae Prime. After all, when people were given licence to treat others in such a way they often plumbed depths that one could not believe a civilised people could reach. The concentration camps of mid-twentieth century Earth proved that.

He lay and looked up at the stars, at Sol and at Alphonae, both harbouring planets which were seeded with the same people, and felt that ghost of pain and discomfort and shame radiating through his pelvis and hips. There had been millions of people in the past who had suffered as he had. He knew that. But each person’s suffering was unique and their own. There was no point in comparing it. But perhaps his treatment could be rationalised. He had seen those twentieth century Earth experiments where, on being given permission to give a subject electric shocks which would kill them, participants had done just that, merely because an authority figure had told them to do so. Robert Heaton had grown up seeing slaves separated from free men as if they were a sub-race. He had never been taught to understand that they were any more than useful creatures who did one’s bidding without question. He had not been taught that their pain and joy and sorrow and love was just as deep as any other person’s,  or that their personhood had any value .

But surely there was an individual responsibility  by which every competent person had a duty to live? Surely there was always the ability of any person to turn around in a society run by oppression and say,  _No, I will not be the oppressor?_

He lay still on the rock with his eyes on the stars, trying to untangle the conflicting thoughts in his head. Rationalisation and logic were the only way forward, but still he harboured that burning sense of pain, injustice, hatred, the desire for revenge. He did not know how to face tomorrow in the knowledge that he would be asked to push even deeper into those terrible memories and recount instance after instance when Robert Heaton had stripped his privacy, his dignity, his will, and the sanctity of his body from him, and used him as a receptacle for his lust, or to spend some of the sadistic bitterness and anger that seemed to compose half of his personality on a receptive, helpless living thing.

There was a sudden rush, and he heard Kirk’s voice snapping out, ‘Kirk to  _Enterprise_ !’

Spock sat up sharply, and Kirk gasped. Just as a voice filtered through the communicator Kirk said rather shamefacedly, ‘Never mind,  _Enterprise_ . Never mind. Kirk out.’

His captain mounted the rock panting and out of breath, no more than a silhouette against the starred sky. He held a flashlight in his hand which he trained on his friend, looking him up and down.

‘Good God, Spock, I thought you were dead!’ he said in a brittle voice as he reached the Vulcan. ‘Lying there like that, not moving. Your note – ’

‘Said that I was going for a walk and might be some time,’ Spock pointed out smoothly. ‘Not that I intended suicide.’

Kirk was panting, holding a hand to his ribs. ‘Spock, have you ever heard of Scott’s Antarctic expedition?’ he asked peevishly.

‘Of course I have, Captain,’ Spock said. ‘The expedition took place on Earth in spring of the year 1912. Scott intended to be the first to reach the South Pole. It was an ill advised expedition and all five members of the party died, while the Norwegian Amundsen reached the pole first.’

‘And do you remember the last words of Captain Oates?’ Kirk asked tartly.

Spock looked into his memory, and then recalled, ‘Captain Lawrence Edward Grace Oates is reputed to have said,  _I am just going outside and may be some time,_ although there is some dispute over the validity of that claim. ’ He frowned, and then said, ‘Captain, were I intending on committing suicide, I assure you I would do better than to leave you a cryptic historical allusion to alert you of my intentions.’

Kirk sank down beside his friend, slowly recovering his breath.

‘Okay, Spock,’ he said. ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I came back from dinner and – I guess I panicked. It’s been such a hard day for you.’

Spock looked at his captain, and then back at the stars. ‘The vista of space always has the effect of giving one perspective,’ he said. ‘I was taking advantage of that fact.’

‘Of course,’ Kirk murmured. He sat still, breathing deeply in the thin air. After a while he looked at Spock perspicaciously in the glow from the flashlight. ‘You _are_ all right, Spock?’ he asked.

‘I am adequate,’ Spock said truthfully. ‘I am not eager in my anticipation of the rest of the trial, but I believe that I will be able to do it.’

Kirk continued to give him that hard, searching look, evidently trying to read his face for a hint of mistruth.

‘I believe I could eat something now,’ Spock added.

Kirk laughed and clapped him round the shoulder. ‘That, Mr Spock, is the best thing I’ve heard from you all day. Let’s go back and get you something to eat.’

  
  


 


	31. Chapter 31

‘It’s a train wreck. It’s just a train wreck,’ McCoy muttered darkly as they left the court room on the final day of testimony. The panel had retired to consider the evidence, and they would be informed when the court was to reconvene to pass verdict.

Spock looked at the doctor sharply. ‘Do you believe that this day went badly?’ he asked in concern. He felt that he had very little ability to reason objectively over the proceedings after going through such intimate details day after day.

‘No, Spock. No, it’s not that,’ McCoy said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just mean – this whole thing. The fact that you had to go through all of this via the Federation court and go through it again here. I’ve watched you being torn apart every day. And that kid’s lawyer is still trying to argue that he didn't know what he was doing, that it wasn’t his fault.’

‘Those tears won’t work here on Vulcan,’ Kirk pointed out. ‘I didn’t see a moment of positive reaction from the panel when he broke down this time. I don’t know what he hopes to accomplish by it.’

‘Oh, I think those tears were real in some part,’ McCoy said quietly. ‘He’s an evil, abhorrent little piece of scum, but he never thought he’d have to account for his actions. I’m sure on his home planet those nasty little incidents are just swept under the rug; that’s if they’re not downright approved of. But now he’s facing a very, very long time in an alien rehabilitation facility a very, very long way from home. Spock was the first non-human he’d ever encountered in his life – you heard how the lawyer used that as an argument, saying he didn’t know his actions were equal to what they would be with a human. He’s barely left his home district, let alone his planet, and now he’s facing spending the next quarter of a decade, perhaps, in Vulcan custody. At the worst extreme, if he can’t be rehabilitated, he might never see his home again.’

‘Bones, you’re not _sorry_ for him?’ Kirk asked in disgust.

‘Sorry? For that piece of filth?’ McCoy shook his head. ‘No, I’m not sorry for him, but I do understand why he’s feeling enough fear to make those tears pretty goddamn authentic.’

‘Spock?’ Kirk asked, looking at the Vulcan. ‘You’re very quiet.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Spock said. He felt he had very little to say, although thoughts were moving in his mind like a maelstrom. The five days of testimony had taken him through so much that he had hoped to never have to speak of to anyone again. Kirk, who had been at his side throughout, was now cognisant of every single trauma that he had undergone at the hands of Master Robert, who was facing judgement for fifty seven counts of rape, along with charges for whippings, beatings, and various other physical assaults.

Spock was jostled by someone and moved a little out of the way, but he found himself in the startling position of facing a man in a traditional Vulcan robe who was holding out a micro-recorder to his face.

‘Commander Spock, may we have a statement from you on this last day of trial?’ the man asked in a very un-Vulcan voice.

Spock stepped back, blinking, bewildered at the question. Kirk jerked at the man’s hood, pulling it off his face to reveal someone definitely human, a dark haired man who had no expression of embarrassment at being thus exposed.

‘I thought there was something odd about you in the court room,’ the captain said in a hard voice. ‘No comment.’

Spock opened his mouth to speak, but Kirk cut across him. ‘No comment,’ he repeated. ‘Now go peddle your trade somewhere else.’

‘We’ll run the spread one way or another,’ the man said with an open shrug. ‘I’m offering Commander Spock the chance to make a comment.’

‘Let me see your press card,’ Kirk said in a hard voice.

Spock resisted all temptation to say anything. He felt dazed and exhausted after another day of close questioning about the assaults, and after hearing Robert Heaton’s own account of what he believed had – or hadn’t – happened.

‘I don’t have to show you anything, Captain Kirk,’ the journalist said carelessly. ‘Like I said, we’ll run the spread anyway, but it would be better for Commander Spock if he gave us a few words.’

‘I have no statement,’ Spock said in a blank voice.

 _Terrible_. It was terrible to have stood in that court and spoken of those things, but it was more terrible still to think that one of those present had been a journalist recording every titillating detail. It was true that Vulcans had no interest in gossip, but obviously the lure of the first officer of Starfleet’s most well-known ship, the first human-Vulcan hybrid, and the son of the Ambassador of Vulcan, was too much for various human publications.

‘Jim, tread carefully,’ McCoy said in an undertone.

Kirk made an abrupt decision. He snapped open his communicator and said, ‘ _Enterprise_ , transporter room. Beam Commander Spock, Dr McCoy, and myself to coordinates 27-57 mark 3.’

‘Aye, sir,’ came the reply, and Spock felt the familiar vibration and then strange momentary non-existence of beaming. He was deposited, as he had expected when he heard Kirk’s coordinates, just outside the walls of his parents’ manor. The journalist, he assumed, would not instantly know to where those coordinates referred and in any case would not have a starship at his disposal to facilitate instant transport.

‘Good thinking, Jim,’ McCoy said with a grin. ‘Getting Spock away from that bastard without any further conflict.’

‘I’m going to be having a quiet word with court security,’ Kirk said in a grim voice. ‘This is a high profile trial, and they should have been aware that someone might have tried to crash it.’

‘I don’t think Vulcans think in terms of tabloid journalism, Jim,’ McCoy pointed out.

‘Nevertheless, he shouldn’t have got in,’ Kirk persisted. ‘We kept the lid on this for the whole trial on Starbase 73. It’s unacceptable for it to happen here.’

‘But inevitable, perhaps,’ Spock said quietly. ‘Doubtless they hope to run a double-headed story, titillating interest today before running the verdict when it arrives. If he had broken the story any earlier he would have risked being excluded from subsequent sessions.’

‘Spock, do you think your parents would mind an unannounced visit?’ Kirk asked.

Spock looked around at the high walls that surrounded his parents’ house.

‘I very much doubt my mother will mind,’ he said.

‘Are you all right, Spock?’ McCoy asked solicitously.

Spock nodded, but he felt unpleasantly shaken by the whole thing.

‘I suppose he _will_ run his piece,’ he said pensively.

‘He can’t say anything, Spock,’ Kirk reassured him. ‘He can’t give away intimate details of the trial. He’ll be bound by the usual press restrictions.’

‘Perhaps,’ Spock nodded, but he was quite aware that although reputable news agencies adhered to those press restrictions, in a galaxy this size there were plenty of agencies operating out of bases that had no obligation to follow any Federation imposed rules.

‘Let’s go inside, if we can,’ Kirk said. ‘I’m just about dying of heatstroke out here.’

Spock nodded and led his friends up to the house door. It was Sarek who answered, and Kirk explained quickly why they had arrived so unexpectedly.

‘Of course you may use the comm,’ Sarek agreed. ‘I think I will be having words with the court security section myself. It is quite against Vulcan law to allow members of the press into such hearings.’

Spock walked wordlessly deeper into the house, taking little notice of the interaction between his father and his human friends and separating himself from them so that he could try to gather his control. He knew precisely where he was going. He still had his own bedroom, a place that had never been changed by his parents, despite his eighteen year period of difficulty with Sarek. It was still as he had left it, the bed neatly made and the furniture and small trinkets still in place, all with a pallor of outdated fashioned hanging over them. He touched the dark green and very Earth-influenced bedspread, which had been appealing to him twenty years ago, wondering if he would ever choose one that looked like that now. Vulcan fashions did not change as fast as human, certainly, but they did change, as did personal choice.

He went to the window and stood with his hands on the sill, looking out over the garden. Perhaps his mother was outside. He had not noticed any sign of her on his walk through the house. He could not see her covered rose garden from here, but only the more traditional Vulcan planting in the exposed parts of the garden. The roses, perhaps, would be too much for him right now. Their scents and colours tended to be overwhelming, unlike the restrained Vulcan shrubs and cactus-like plants that clung to the sandy earth in the outside garden. He stood there, lost in abstract thought, just watching the dark leaves of the plants moving in the slight breeze. Overhead a bird circled, perhaps looking for prey. Spock felt a sympathy for whatever small creature there was on the ground that was soon to be struck out of life.

‘Well, Spock, I hear there was a journalist outside the court today.’

Spock turned. His mother was standing in the doorway, taking off a loose headscarf. She obviously _had_ been outside. Her hands and fingernails showed evidence of soil on them.

‘Yes, and inside the court by all accounts,’ Spock said pensively.

She came across the room and gave him a quick hug before he could protest.

‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure if Sarek has anything to do with it the only thing he’ll be publishing in the near future will be the sports results.’

‘Perhaps,’ Spock said.

‘Well, even if they did publish anything, they couldn’t reveal full details, could they?’ she asked him anxiously. ‘I mean, even the worst papers don’t print things like that?’

‘I have not had occasion to read the worst papers,’ Spock pointed out. ‘But no, I believe that they will be regulated by a certain amount of decorum.’

‘Try not to worry about things that are beyond your control,’ she told him. ‘Why don’t you come down to the sitting room and I’ll bring refreshments for you and your friends? I’m sure that Sarek won’t have yet.’

‘Of course,’ Spock said. He had known that his walking away had been discourteous, but he had felt in desperate need of that time alone. The silent meditative gazing on the garden had helped.

When he entered the sitting room Kirk and McCoy were already there, seated together on one settee while Sarek sat on the other, talking quietly. They looked up as he came in, and Kirk said, ‘Well, Spock, I’ve spoken to the court security team. They’re mortified – well, as much as they can be,’ he said with a quick glance at Sarek, ‘at letting that guy in. They’re going to vet everyone extra carefully when the court reconvenes for the verdict.’

Spock nodded silently. Sarek looked at him and said, ‘I too have spoken to those responsible for security. They will be certain to take greater care in future.’

Spock nodded again, but there was still the overhanging knowledge that a journalist had sat through that final questioning and summing up, and was now poised to write an article on what he had heard.

‘May I use your terminal, Sarek?’ he asked.

His father looked at him sharply, as if he anticipated the reason why Spock wanted to use the computer.

‘I wouldn’t, Spock,’ McCoy said after a moment of silence. ‘He was fast. The – ah – the story’s already up.’

Spock closed his eyes briefly, then crossed the hall swiftly to enter Sarek’s office and flick the terminal there into life. A brief glance at the headlines for certain sectors of the news showed him that McCoy had been quite correct. The headlines were blazing. _Top Starfleet Officer in Horrifying Rape and Slavery Ordeal. I was Raped: Vulcan Ambassador Son’s Terrible Ordeal. Spock Shock! Raped and Enslaved, the_ Enterprise _First Officer’s Story._

He flicked the terminal off again, the colour draining from his cheeks. For the story to have been printed this fast the journalist must have pre-written the majority of the report and sent it off to various agencies almost immediately following the session today. Perhaps he had been in earlier court sessions too. How much had he heard? What had he said? He could not bring himself to read what promised to be lurid stories to match the headlines.

‘I am doing all that I can to restrict any further such stories, and to have those removed which contravene ethical press guidelines,’ Sarek said quietly from behind him. ‘If the journalist is still on Vulcan, which I consider likely, he will be apprehended and dealt with by Vulcan law. He cannot leave the planet legally without being identified.’

Spock turned, stiff with shock at the thought of those stories travelling throughout the Federation.

‘I am grateful,’ he said, not caring whether Sarek would feel that thanks were inappropriate. He _was_ truly grateful. There would be people on the ship now reading those stories. Access to the news was not restricted on board ship. His friends and his colleagues would be aware, and although Vulcans were unlikely to deliberately seek out such stories it was undoubted that they would slowly seep through.

Sarek came closer, surprising Spock by laying a hand gently on his shoulder.

‘You must feel no shame,’ he said, forestalling the apology that Spock had been about to make. ‘If this story reflects on the family or on my job in any way it is not a reflection of which I shall be ashamed. The adherence to discipline and inner strength that you have shown can only reflect well on this family.’

Spock was not sure how to answer to that unexpected understanding and kindness. He ended up reverting to ritual.

‘I honour you, my father,’ he said.

Sarek’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder.

‘No, Spock,’ he said. ‘ _I_ honour you. I could not ask for a son more worthy of the Vulcan blood and the Vulcan way.’


	32. Chapter 32

The verdict came in the next morning. Spock was alerted by a soft chiming via the hotel comm, and a message which asked him to return to the court in an hour’s time to be present for the reading of the verdict and possible sentencing. He stood with one hand on the button, half-frozen. Sarek had pledged to stand with him for the verdict, along with his mother, Kirk, and McCoy. But still, he felt frozen. Perhaps there would be other media outside the court, after the story which had broken last night. It was very possible that other journalists had flocked to the place, and there were no Vulcan laws that would prevent their right to assemble peacefully outside the building, even if they were denied admittance to the court.

‘It’ll be all right, Spock,’ Kirk said softly from behind him. ‘I’ll call McCoy and your parents, shall I, and we can meet them down there?’

‘Y-es,’ Spock said hesitantly.

‘You have to be present for the verdict,’ Kirk reminded him. ‘They won’t give it if the claimant isn’t there.’

‘Yes, I do know,’ Spock replied, straightening himself up and trying to be more of the Vulcan of whom Sarek had professed such pride. But he had heard Kirk speaking quietly on the comm last night to Lieutenant Uhura, when he had believed Spock to be asleep. Although the specifics of the case had previously been restricted to a few sickbay staff and Spock’s friends, and the court case on the obscure and isolated Starbase 73 kept tightly private, the entire crew had been curious. Now that the story had been printed as news the word had gone around the ship like wildfire. Once the case was over Spock faced returning to a ship where 430 people knew the shame that he had faced, perhaps encountering loss of respect and the associated loss of the authority which, as First Officer, was very necessary to his job.

‘Spock,’ Kirk urged him again. ‘Go grab some breakfast and get dressed, and I’ll call McCoy and your parents. You need to be ready for this.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course, Captain,’ Spock said absently, turning from the comm and going to the room’s small replicator. He chose a simple, cold Vulcan breakfast and sat at the table eating it. Then he went to the bathroom and carefully washed and applied beard suppressant, and donned the stiff and formal Starfleet dress uniform. When he emerged Kirk was sitting at the table with his tunic hanging open, demolishing a small stack of toast.

‘They’ll be outside the courthouse,’ he said to Spock.

‘I beg your pardon, Captain?’ Spock said, thinking of journalists.

‘Bones and your parents. They’ll be outside the courthouse to meet us,’ he said. He dusted crumbs from his fingertips and wiped his lips on a napkin, then began to fasten his tunic while grabbing sips of black coffee from a tall cup. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to leave. I’ve ordered a cab.’

Spock nodded, not arguing about the choice of taking transport instead of walking. He did not relish the idea of walking through streets where anyone could approach him for comments, photographs, or reactions. Even with a cab, there would be the walk across the open plaza that stood in front of the court building, and nothing to protect him from anyone who cared to watch or ask probing questions.

Inside the cab he clamped down so firmly in his mind that he was barely aware of what was going on around him. He needed to control the emotions that were threatening to break through his control. So when they stepped out of the cab and Kirk said sharply, ‘My God, Spock!’ he looked up, startled, uncertain of what the captain had seen.

There, on the thirty yard wide expanse of the plaza, were assembled what looked like almost the entire complement of the _Enterprise_ crew. They were stood in dress uniform, forming an aisle with sides three deep in places. When Spock stepped out of the cab, which had stopped at the end of the aisle where steps reached up to the plaza, the entire line came to attention and, in a very old fashioned and human way, raised their hands to their foreheads in salute.

Spock stared. ‘Captain – did you know of this?’ he asked in a quiet voice.

‘Not a thing, Spock,’ he said under his breath. ‘Good lord... That must be every crew member who isn’t necessary to keep the ship in orbit.’

Spock felt a pride welling up inside his chest that was very definitely not according to Vulcan discipline. Behind the lines on either side he could see people in civilian clothing, mostly human, jostling to try to break through. Some shouts were heard in the thin air. But the rear of both lines was composed of _Enterprise_ security guards and the tallest and burliest of all other departments, and the journalists may as well have been trying to push through a brick wall.

Spock ascended the steps very stiffly, his eyes on the gap between the lines, but he could not help glancing to the left and right every now and then to see the familiar faces. Not one of them held an expression of derision or disrespect, but simply held their positions, their hands in salute and their eyes looking straight ahead. Far from feeling exposed, he felt protected.

As he reached the head of the line he saw Scott, who was in temporary command, standing there with his own hand raised. As he saw Spock he broke the pose for a moment to smile at the Vulcan and say, ‘Aye, sir, they all came of their own accord. Not a one was ordered down here.’

Spock saw Uhura smiling at him with tears in her eyes, and Christine Chapel standing next to her with a statuesque pride on her face. Sulu and Chekov were opposite Scott, both rigidly at attention. Where the lines of _Enterprise_ crew members ran out there began a short two rows of muscular Vulcan honour guards who held ceremonial _lirpa_ , many of them the same ones who had been present to ensure order at his ceremony of _kal-if-fee_. These, then, must have been arranged by Sarek.

The line ended at the entrance to the court house, where McCoy and his parents were waiting just inside.

‘Sarek, did you arrange this?’ Spock asked in wonder as they passed from the heat and clamour of outside to the cool, shaded interior of the building.

‘I believe it was the general consensus of crew aboard the _Enterprise_ that the guard should be formed, once they were aware of the journalistic activity that was likely to be present today,’ Sarek said. ‘Commander Scott contacted me for advice as to how to arrange the necessary permissions, at which point I told him I would take responsibility for arranging those permissions, and also called upon the resources of our family to have the native guard present. T’Pau was quite willing to accommodate both requests.’

His mother’s eyes were wide and damp with tears, and she smiled at Spock, reaching out a hand to touch his arm but not embarrassing him with a more demonstrative display.

‘I’m proud of them,’ McCoy said, nodding toward the colourful lines of crew outside the doors. ‘And _they’re_ proud of _you_ ,’ he said pointedly to Spock.

‘Shall we go?’ Sarek asked. ‘It is time.’

Spock straightened himself and locked his hands behind his back.

‘Yes,’ he said. He looked sideways at Jim. ‘Captain?’

‘Of course, Spock,’ Jim said. Spock could see his pride in his crew that was so strong in him that he almost glowed.

As they walked into the court room that feeling of protection faded somewhat, but he pulled hard at his disciplines and took his place on the left hand side of the aisle, where his lawyer was already standing. If she had been human perhaps she would have said something upon her predictions for the verdict, but there was no logic in speculation.

‘The sudden interest from news agencies is regrettable,’ she said simply, ‘but well dealt with, I think.’

‘Yes,’ Spock agreed.

He leaned in as Kirk passed behind him to stand next to him. In the row behind him his parents and McCoy were standing, as close to him as they could get. The feeling of protection swelled again.

He looked sideways as there was movement at the other door, and Robert Heaton was brought in, flanked by Vulcan guards, to meet his human lawyer on the right side of the aisle. The human looked pale and subdued, and Spock wondered if his lawyer had shared any of his own predictions. Spock could not be confident, though. It was too hard to hold on to a certainty of victory when defeat would be such a blow.

The _Ans’hi_ T’Par stood at the centre of the panel, and the guards rang their bells for silence. The soft murmurs of conversation died away, and she raised her voice to the room.

‘Claimant S’chn T’gai Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skon, heir to the estate of Sarek on this world of Vulcan, thou dost come to hear verdict. Accused, Robert William Heaton, son of David Heaton, heir to the farm Wood’s End, on the planet Alphonae Prime, thou dost stand before me to hear and receive verdict and sentence for fifty-seven counts of rape performed on forty-two separate occasions, andfifteen counts of physical harm inflicted upon another sentient being.’

The matriarch paused and looked about the court, then turned deliberately to look directly at the members of the panel on both sides of her.

‘The panel you see gathered has deliberated on evidence presented through five days of court hearing. They have also studied psychometric data on both the claimant and the accused. The accused refused meld, while the claimant allowed probing by Skan, the most eminent professional in the field of meld evidence. The panel have reached their verdict.’

She looked toward the panel again, and a member stepped forward to hand her an elaborate scroll. This was obviously a formality only, because although she unrolled the scroll she barely spared it a glance.

‘Robert William Heaton, thou hast been found guilty by this panel of thirty two provable counts of rape and two of provable physical harm inflicted upon another sentient being – ’

A ripple of sensation ran around the courtroom. Spock could feel Jim’s, McCoy’s, and his mother’s jubilation thick in the air. From Sarek there was a more muted sense of triumph. His lawyer T’Ansa turned to him and gave him a significant look, while Jim hit him on the arm, grinning like a child in a toy shop.

‘ – while fifteen counts of rape and thirteen of physical harm could not be proven,’ T’Par said, raising her voice above the murmur of conversation. The bearers shook their frames of bells, and quiet settled through the court again. Spock allowed himself a glance at Robert Heaton and saw that he was leaning heavily on the bar in front of him with a blanched face, his lawyer holding his arm and murmuring into his ear. Angrily, Heaton pushed the lawyer away.

‘It has been proven that thou did carry out these offences in full knowledge that they were being carried out upon a citizen of Vulcan,’ T’Par continued, ‘and that thy behaviour was immoral, inexcusable, and against the laws and dictates of thine own planet – in the case of the rape of a male by another male – and that of your victim, in the case of both rape and physical harm inflicted upon another sentient being. It has been proven that thou were not coerced by any other to carry out these acts, and did perform them thyself of thy own free will, upon a victim who was cruelly denied any free will. In thy favour is the fact that thou were born and bred in a place that did as a matter of course exact terrible cruelties upon other sentient beings and did bond them in slavery, _but_ it has been proven that thou hast the intelligence and will to go against that societal norm. The fact that thou did not is damning indeed.’

Spock glanced at Kirk, finding it difficult to know what to think. The facts were whirling in his head. Robert Heaton had been convicted. _He had been convicted._

‘It is now my burden to pass sentence upon thee, Robert William Heaton of Alphonae Prime,’ T’Par said. ‘The panel have deliberated upon the best means of correcting this deviation which thou hast shown, and have come to a majority decision. That is, that thou shalt be committed to a penal institution for a term of thirty-five years, a term which shall be reduced conditional upon provable mental reform, but reduced by no more than ten years. A minimum of of twenty-five years must be served to honour the suffering of thy victim, which was intense, prolonged, and cruel. In deference to thy blood and place of birth, thou shalt be committed to the human penal institution of Willow Bay on Devra 7.’

Spock glanced at Heaton again, seeing a definitely look of relief ameliorating his shock as the judge mentioned the human penal institution. The length of the sentence had appeared to crush him, but perhaps one of his greatest fears was being imprisoned and left at the hands of Vulcans.

‘Remind me to tell you something about Willow Bay,’ Kirk said in a very soft murmur near to Spock’s ear.

Spock looked at him, startled, but did not reply. There seemed to be some kind of supernova expanding in his chest just at the knowledge that he had been believed and that Heaton would receive punishment for his cruelty. It was as if a lid had been closed on one particular aspect of his trauma. Heaton would no longer be allowed to walk about in freedom, boasting of his crimes.

Spock listened in silence to the rest of the _Ans’hi_ T’Par’s words, but the relevant bit had passed. Robert Heaton was ordered to pay compensation to his victim, but as he had no resources of his own it was unlikely that would ever come to fruition. Spock did not mind. He was not in need of money. Very soon he was walking out of the courtroom with Jim’s arm squeezing his shoulders and McCoy and his mother clustering about him. He did not protest Jim’s tactile familiarity. The joy that was coming through the touch complemented his own unexpressed joy.

When they reached the outer door the guard from the _Enterprise_ were still there, and when Kirk gave them a buoyant but subtle thumbs up such cheering erupted that the shouts of the journalists for comment were drowned completely. The cheers began with those in sight of the captain but rippled down the lines almost instantly. Spock walked with his head held high to the waiting cab, where his mother embraced him quickly and Sarek held his hand up in salute. He got in with Kirk and McCoy, intending to visit with his parents later.

‘You wished to tell me about Willow Bay, Jim,’ Spock said once the cab door was closed and it was certain that no one was listening.

‘Yeah, what is it with that?’ McCoy asked. ‘You seemed pleased, Jim. I for one would have loved to see him in a Vulcan prison.’

‘Maybe, Bones, but Vulcan prisons are very – Vulcan,’ Kirk said.

‘As one would expect,’ Spock nodded.

Kirk brushed that away with a wave of his hand. ‘What I mean is, although it would have been alien to all that he knew, a Vulcan prison would have been logical, focussed on the needs of the prisoner and on rehabilitating them to re-enter society.’

‘Is that not the ideal?’ Spock asked with half a frown.

‘Well...’ Kirk said. At that point the cab reached the hotel and Kirk deferred further discussion until they were in their room. ‘Willow Bay is a very human prison, Spock,’ he said as soon as they and McCoy were alone again. ‘Of course ostensibly it’s all about rehabilitation – what modern prison isn’t? But it’s – very human.’

‘I am not entirely certain of what you mean by that, Captain,’ Spock said, intrigued.

‘Let’s just say, he won’t have it easy there,’ Kirk said. ‘It’s a high security prison, violent crimes mostly. I don’t imagine that the other inmates will be exactly kind on someone convicted of the kind of crimes he performed. I expect he’ll be – put in his place – very quickly. Besides that, it’s a working prison, and he’ll be expected to perform labour in return for his bed and board. Of course there’ll be the usual mental reconditioning, but it’s not going to be a pleasant journey for him. I suspect that the judge knew that when she opted to send him there. There are other prisons nearer Alphonae Prime with better reputations.’

Spock frowned slightly. ‘Captain, do you believe that it is a good thing to brutalise prisoners rather than effectively rehabilitate them?’

‘Not in general, no,’ Kirk said, sobering at Spock’s tone of voice. ‘But in that little shit’s case...’

‘I’m with Jim, Spock,’ McCoy told him firmly. ‘He didn’t exactly hold back from doing what could have brutalised you, did he?’

‘Perhaps that is true,’ Spock said. He did not believe in allowing victims to have influence on how their attackers were punished, but he had to admit to a certain satisfaction at the thought of Robert Heaton being subject to some of the same hardships that he himself had suffered on Alphonae Prime, and over a much longer period, too.

‘He’ll be in his forties when he’s out, at the earliest,’ McCoy pointed out.

This too gave Spock some silent satisfaction.

‘Gentlemen,’ Kirk said, going over to the sideboard and bending to take out three glasses and a bottle that he had obviously put in there earlier. ‘It’s been a long morning. May I suggest we spend the rest of the day in a more relaxing style. I want to raise a toast to you, Spock, and later I have reservations for all of us – your parents included – at one of the best restaurants in the city.’

‘Champagne?’ McCoy asked, taking the bottle from his captain to read the label. ‘You really were confident of the verdict, weren’t you?’

‘I couldn’t see how it could go any other way,’ Kirk said, reclaiming the bottle. ‘Not just champagne, Bones, but authentic champagne from the Champagne region of France. Vintage of 2257. I was told it was an excellent year.’

The bottle opened with a forceful pop, the cork firing across the room and ricocheting off the wall, and he caught the first frothing bubbles in one of the glasses.

‘Spock, Bones,’ he said, handing them their drinks before pouring his own. ‘To Spock,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘I’m proud of you for coming through this. I think we all are.’

‘Damn right,’ McCoy muttered, before echoing, ‘To Spock,’ and raising his own glass.

Spock sat at sipped at the light and bubbling wine, feeling a profound sense of ease move through his body such as he had not felt since before his enslavement on Alphonae Prime. Perhaps, he thought, he would be able to move on from here. Perhaps this moment would count as a new beginning.

 

THE END


End file.
